Mystery Weekend
by katia1
Summary: Now complete. Syd and Nigel go 'undercover' at a murder mystery party on a remote Scottish island. Shacked up with desperate fading TV stars, mad aristocrats and lustful milkmaids, they both get more than they bargained for...
1. Chapter 1:a roll in the hay

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sydney and Nigel. I made up the rest, kind of.**

**Note: this is not a sequel to my previous story, Lovers of Legend. It is mainly, as it says, a comedy/mystery story, but as it develops I'm sure it will contain plenty of high-kicking action adventure, a good dose of angst, and some moments of Syd/Nigel romance.**

**Dedications: I don't normally bother, but I dreamt up this incredibly silly concept with the 'love of my life' over a nice bottle of wine. So I really ought to mention him somewhere...**

**Anyway, the story:**

_Mystery weekend_

By Katia

Of course, Nigel said 'No!' However, by then, as the plane on its transatlantic flight was starting its descent towards Glasgow airport, it was far too late to do anything about it.

'You're lucky Maria was able get you onto the island at all,' said Sydney, matter-of-factly, as her teaching assistant stared at her, aghast. 'There was only one place left for the murder mystery party, and it was for a woman. Of course, if you feel that you could keep the cross-dressing act up all weekend, then I'll see if they can find a place for _me_ on the domestic staff…'

'Alright, alright,' seethed Nigel, through gritted teeth. 'Its just that you could have told me earlier and, well… what exactly am I going to have to do?'

Sydney smiled congenially. 'There's nothing to worry about, really. It seems that Lord Bannockburgh likes to give his paying party guests a really… pleasurable experience. So, he employs attractive young people to dress in period costume, do some light domestic chores, and generally make the place look… nice.' The aghast look returned to Nigel's face. 'You have to play along with the murder mystery, of course…hey, maybe you'll know who did it before I do!' There was still no change in his awestruck countenance. 'Come on, Nigel, you'll have plenty of time to snoop around looking for the relic, and it'll be fun… '

'Alright, alright,' said Nigel, relenting slightly. 'It _might_ be fun. Its not like I'm not used to being ordered around, is it?' He gave Syd an accusing smile, which she returned. 'So, what is my job title?'

'Err, I think you're the, err…stableboy.'

'Stableboy!' Several images shot through Nigel's mind, all of which were disturbing. 'I couldn't possibly…I don't like horses that much! I can't even ride... and I'm sure I'm allergic to hay!'

'Relax, Nigel. No experience with horses was necessary. Apparently, they were more interested in the bar work we added to your fake cv, and your photo. The hay allergy might be a problem though…'

Nigel gaped at her and then recoiled slightly as his boss leaned in so close that her warm breath ruffled his hair. 'I was looking forward to a roll in the hay with the stableboy,' whispered Sydney playfully.

Almost simultaneously, an announcement came over the speaker system informing them that they should put on their seat belts for landing. Nigel, his seatbelt already fastened, gripped the arm of his seat and wondered what on earth to say to his boss in reply to her proposition. Could her suggestion, or the whole situation, be anything more than a particularly humiliating joke?

………..

Up until Sydney had made her little revelation, Nigel had been rather looking forward to this particular mission. Professor Fox had been contacted by an old college friend, Maria, who was now a curator at a museum in Athens. Maria was incredibly excited about a new exhibit which was about to open at her workplace, a reconstruction of a temple to the goddess Athena, which had once stood near the city. She had hoped to have crowned the display with a beautiful marble statue of the goddess herself, which had remained in situ in the ruins of the temple until the early 19th century. Then it had disappeared.

Maria's research suggested that there was one major suspect in the case of the vanishing relic. Back in the 1800s, a young Scottish Lord, had shown a great interest in the statue. Nevertheless, although they had taken his money in return for less precious artifacts, the locals had refused to let him remove the statue from her plinth. They had defended the piece partially because of its extreme antiquity and beauty. However, the statue was also the subject of ancient myths which claimed all who touched her would be blessed with particular longevity of youth and beauty. Angry and resentful, the Scottish Lord had skulked back to the Highlands without his prize. A few months later the statue had disappeared in the dead of night.

The British aristocrat had been a profligate, diffident man, with a great deal of money; his family's fortune had been made in the 'East Indies'. He certainly had had the resources to arrange the theft, and he was clearly the prime suspect. When Maria had contacted his descendant, however, the present Lord Bannockburgh, her advances had been rebuffed. Even though she had offered him a large cheque for something which, if he had it, would have essentially been illegal stolen goods, the Lord refused even to confirm whether the statue was in his possession or not. He would open no negotiations. It was then she got on the phone to Sydney Fox.

The plan seemed simple. Lord Bannockburgh lived in an enormous mock-gothic mansion on a remote Scottish island, which had been built by the same extravagant ancestor who was suspected of taking the statue. As the family funds were drying up, he made ends meet by holding extremely exclusive murder mystery parties. He charged vast amounts of money for toffs, celebrities, and bored businessmen to dress up in 1930's costumes, wine and dine extravagantly, and pretend to be Poirot or Lord Peter Wimsey for the weekend. Maria suggested that Sydney and Nigel go undercover at one such gathering and see if they could locate the statue and either open negotiations with the Lord or, if rendered necessary, appropriate it by other means.

This idea had appealed to Nigel. The prospect of danger seemed relatively slight and a couple of days in a swanky Scottish castle sounded positively pleasant. Between studying Maria's research notes on the plane, he had conjured up visions of his playing Colonel Mustard to Sydney's slinky Miss Scarlet, imaginings which were not entirely unexciting. That, however, had been before he'd been informed of his allotted role in this ensemble piece, and his dreams had crashed in flames, or rather, into hay, manure and worse.

Sydney, admittedly, had felt a little guilty about his lot, and deliberately postponed telling him until the last possible minute. She assured herself this delay was because she didn't want him to get anxious on the flight. She reasoned that the less time he had to think about it, the less time he had to worry. Her conscience was not helped by the matter that she had been enjoying mental images of 'Nigel the stableboy' for the full six hours of the journey, and had checked herself at least a couple of times as her fantasy tumbled towards the ubiquitous hay. She also was pretty sure that the 'young and attractive' staff were employed, at least partially, for purposes of titillating the guests. Although Maria had assured her that Lord Bannockburgh's parties were entirely respectable, and there was a 'look but don't touch' policy in operation, she did hope that Nigel could handle any unwanted 'attentions'.

'You'll be fine,' she instructed Nigel, as she handed him his rail tickets at Glasgow Queen Street Station. Her assistant looked particularly nonplussed. 'You only have to survive on your own for a few hours until I get there…although, of course, we will have to pretend we don't know each other.'

'Yes, of course…' grumbled Nigel. 'Great ladies can't be seen to be mixing it with us commoners.'

Sydney smiled sympathetically and patted him on the arm. 'I'm sorry, Nigel. I know this isn't what you envisaged. But we will find the statue and, if you really hate it, we'll get out of there as soon as we can.'

'Not before I've had my roll in the hay, ma'am.' Nigel grinned cheekily. Sydney was taken aback by his sudden, and slightly uncharacteristic, change of spirit.

'We'll see about that,' was all she had time to whisper as the whistle blew and he boarded the train. Taking his seat, Nigel waved self-consciously from the window at his boss, wondering what on earth possessed him to deliver that last line, but not regretting it too much. At the very least, Sydney Fox was owed some revenge.

**Thanks for reading. Reviews appreciated.**

**If there is no chapter 2 following this yet, there will be soon: half the story is more or less written, it just needs proofing!**


	2. Chapter 2: is he game?

**Disclaimers: as before.**

Nigel's station was at the end of the line, very literally. Alighting at Bannockburgh Halt, he observed that the buffers at the termination of the track been reached and that land itself disappeared swiftly into sea and fog beyond the end of the deserted platform. The station was tucked in a small glacial-cut valley, the sides of which soared up towards looming, grey mountains, between ranges of which the railway line had weaved itself, with the aid of several tunnels and tottering viaducts. It had been a spectacular journey. Nigel had enjoyed it, despite his misgivings about his destination.

Towards the end of the trip, which had taken several hours, he had started to feel a little nervous about the quietness of the train. The conductor had still been making his way up and down, and he bought a cup of tea from a nice lady at the buffet car, but there didn't seem to be any other passengers left at all. Glancing up the platform in the light drizzle, then, he was enormously relieved to see and hear the chatter of three young women climbing out of a carriage at the other end of the train. All were carrying small suitcases or travelling bags, much like himself. His instructions from Sydney were to wait on the platform for somebody from the castle to meet him. However, seeing as nobody else was about, chivalry required him to ascertain if the girls were also bound for Bannockburgh Towers, and if he could do anything to assist them.

As he got closer, Nigel discerned the young women features rather more clearly and instinctively stopped dead in his tracks. They were gorgeous! All three had amazing bodies and almost implausibly beautiful faces, although each was of a rather different 'type.' One was very tall, with long, sandy straight hair and a svelte model-like figure and face to complement it. The second was a peroxide blonde, shorter, with wavy hair, an hourglass figure, and voluptuous Marilyn Monroe-style lips, embossed with bright red lipstick. The third was a petite brunette, with neat, almost feline features and a particularly pert bottom and cleavage.

Nigel forgot himself for a moment, and stood transfixed, taking in the visual feast. He did not register, until it was too late, that the girls had also noticed him, and were sizing him up in much the same way. Unfortunately for Nigel, it was three against one.

'Oh my God,' squealed the pseudo-Marilyn Monroe. 'He's _way_ cuter than the last stableboy!' They rushed at him as if they were one being. Nigel was struck with sheer panic.

'How do you do, ladies, I….err, wondered if you needed any assistance?' He knew all was lost.

'You can assist me anytime you like, sweetie,' said the tall blond, circling him like a predatory panther. The would-be Marilyn reached forward, brushed her fingers through his hair, and then leaned into him and whispered breathily, 'You're our stableboy, aren't you?'

'I…I think so!' Nigel, swept away by a combination of excitement and horror, tried not to squeal.

'Stop teasing him,' said the brunette, cliched though it was, she was obviously the sensible one. She took Nigel by the arm, and pulled him away from the pawing blondes. 'Oh dear,' she sighed. 'Have you any idea what you've let yourself in for?'

Nigel stared at her vacantly. The tall blond had leant over and was trying to stick her hand down the front of his jumper. The brunette swatted her travel companions' snakelike wrist. 'Leave him alone!' she said authoritatively.

'I'm Moira,' said the brunette, directly. 'This is Pansy,' here she indicated the short, curvy blonde, 'and this is Tabatha.' At this, Pansy and Tabatha both started forward in the hope of conferring warmer greetings, but Moira yanked Nigel forward by the sleeve and out of their respective paths. 'And you are?'

'Nigel,' said Nigel distractedly. He could see Pansy pouting at him in the corner of his vision.

'Oh dear,' said Moira, again. 'Well, it's blatantly obvious you came into this with your eyes shut, isn't it?'

'Is it?' Nigel was certainly finding it difficult to focus. Tabatha had now stuck her fingers down the back of his trouser waistband.

Moira continued. 'We are all actresses.' Pansy smiled bountifully, and fluttered her eyelashes. '_Out of work_ actresses,' articulated Moira, emphatically. Pansy pouted again.

'Sadly, we've all done this several times before. We know the ropes: be nice to the guests, let them get friendly, but not _too_ friendly…'

'Unless we want them to, of course,' giggled Pansy.

'Be quiet, Pansy!' Tabatha looked slightly chastised, but only slightly.

'You, I assume, are a student, not an actor?'

'I'm a postgraduate student. History. Ancient studies.' Nigel answered on autopilot. All he could think about was the feel of Tabatha's ice-cold fingers tickling the small of his back.

'Yes, well, they've been having problems getting stableboys,' said Moira, with a sigh. 'I'm not surprised,' she continued, shaking her head. 'The pay is lousy, and it was humiliating work for an actor.'

Nigel nodded and smiled, but his senses had come back far enough for him to think to himself, 'it couldn't have been as humiliating for them, as it's going to be for me!' He could see that there would be some pleasures involved, but he sincerely wished that Tabatha would remove her hand from its current location, which was dangerously near his underwear.

These thoughts were interrupted by honk of a car horn, following which, to his inexpressible relief, the offending hand was removed swiftly. A large, black vintage looking car, which Nigel identified as a 1939 Morris, drew up outside the tiny station, and a red-faced, middle-aged man with a bushy moustache jumped out energetically.

'Three milk-maids-come-serving-wenches, check! One stableboy,' he said uncertainly, eyeing Nigel up and down as if he was a prize bunny-rabbit. He then grinned. 'Check!' he exclaimed, running over and patting Nigel on the back. 'You'll do very nicely. I'm Bob - the estate manager, butler, and general dogsbody round here.' Nigel shook Bob's proffered hand. 'I'm always a bit nervous about employing people when I've only seen a picture, but my wife adored you. She said you looked perfect!'

'He _is_ perfect,' drawled Pansy, and then gave a hiccupping giggle.

'Alright Pansy, into the car all of you,' said Bob, who then began gathering up their luggage to put in the boot. Nigel knew he had no time to waste: he tossed his bag into the back and threw himself into the front seat next to the driver. There was no way he could survive being stuck in the back seat between Pansy and Tabatha, although he could imagine worse ways to die!

………………………

The car journey lasted about three quarters of an hour, during which time the car chugged its way along a winding coast road, hugging the edge of the sharp slopes that marked the bottom of the mountains. Nigel had to concentrate hard, bombarded with all sorts of questions which he had to answer without giving away his true occupation. He was a student, he told them, and he was in desperate need of a bit of extra cash, fast. His car had broken down and he needed to fix it! He'd never done anything like this before but, hey, he was game for anything! Nigel's severely regretted expressing the last set of sentiments as soon as he uttered them.

Did he have a girlfriend? That was a hard one, causing Nigel to pause and think.

'No, well… kind of. There's somebody, but she doesn't know… ' Nigel wished he'd not been so honest, but hoped sharing this knowledge might ward the girls off a little. The three actresses in the backseat exchanged knowing glances. He'd forget her soon enough, they thought. This boy was certainly 'game.'

……………………

Eventually, they reached a small bay with a jetty which led straight onto the tiniest car ferry that Nigel had ever seen. Bob drove straight on, waved at the ferryman and shouted 'All aboard, Donald!' The runway at the back of the boat slowly folded up, and the ferry eased away from the quay, rolling gently on the waves. Nigel hoped it wouldn't be too far, or get too rough. He felt his cheeks becoming red just at the thought of being seasick in front of Moira, Tabatha and Pansy.

Fortunately, land became discernible ahead after about ten minutes, and after fifteen they were safely docked. For only the second time since he'd met the girls, Nigel thought about Sydney. He hoped the small stretch of water would not be between them for too long. He then wondered how it would be when she did arrive, pretending not to know each other, and how she would get along with Pansy, Tabatha and Moira!

It was only a short drive from the dockside to the castle. Bob said the island was only five miles square and, apart from his cottage and a few other outbuildings, the castle was the only building on the island.

But what a building it was! It truly lived up to its name as 'the towers.' The enormous facade was peaked at each corner by high, castellated towers, from the edges of which hung humungous, garish gargoyles, water pouring from their mouths after recent rain. The windows, large and small, rose to high pointed arches, like those of a cathedral. At its centre, ascending high above a courtyard, was a high round tower. This was topped with a precarious looking spire, the point of which was obscured by the low hanging cloud.

'It's full of vampires,' lisped Pansy, patting Nigel on the shoulder and pointing to the tower. Her voice was laced with mock fear. 'Will you protect me from them, Nigel?' She giggled, Tabatha joining in. These two girls were starting to annoy him. They may have been pretty, but they made Claudia look like a hard-nosed intellectual.

'What an amazing pile,' he said to Bob, referring back to the stately home, but really he was unimpressed. It wasn't a _real_ castle. It was not yet two hundred years old! Never built to be a fortification, it was merely the folly of an overindulged aristocrat and Imperial plunderer.

Nigel had little time to sneer, however, as he was hurried off quickly to be shown his room and told the ropes. In under an hour the guests would arrive, and everybody needed to be ready, in character and in costume.

**Thanks for reading. Reviews appreciated. More very soon – and more Syd, I promise!**


	3. Chapter 3: lady hortensia

**Disclaimers: as before.**

**Thanks for the reviews, everyone. I'm glad you're enjoying it.**

If things hadn't been too bad for Nigel thus far, they rapidly declined just before the guests started to arrive.

Lined up at the front door to greet the VIPs, the girls looked very pretty, dressed in milkmaid outfits with gingham skirts and plunging blouses. Pansy, particularly, resembled a character out of Heidi. Nigel, on the other hand, both looked and felt a fool. He had nearly died when he had seen his outfit. They obviously were not supposed to reflect any sort of historical accuracy or Scottish tradition, but this was ridiculous! The open collared cream shirt and dark red waistcoat were acceptable enough, but there was also a silly pair of tartan plus-four knee breeches, coarse woolen knee-high socks, and a soft cloth cap with a small peak. He looked like a cross between a bellboy and a golfer, and he was _not_ happy.

To add insult to injury, the girls had all put on particularly high heels under their full skirts. Standing alongside them, he felt particularly unattractive and, well, short. 'Any minute now', he thought, 'Sydney is going to arrive and see me like this. She'll die of hysterics and blow our cover.'

Sydney, however, was not the first guest to arrive. She was preceded by a 'Colonel Milford.' Of course, this was not his real name as all the guests had been told to arrive in character for the charade. He was a man in his sixties with lamb chop sideburns which, in themselves, had far more stage presence, and certainly seem to be larger than, his mousy little wife, Lucy. They arrived in a vintage Rolls-Royce, stacked to the ceiling with boxes, suitcases and shooting paraphernalia, which it took Bob and Nigel several trips to deliver to their quarters. After the Milford's, came 'Miss Miranda Macduff', a tall, glamorous woman in her forties. She had long blonde hair, piled on the top of her head and secured by an eclectic variety of jeweled combs. She insisted that Nigel, alone, helped her with her not inconsiderable luggage, a task which took several trips.

Every time he entered her room, she blasted Nigel with a variety of awkward questions. Did he have a girlfriend? Was he gay? Did he like older women? Had he ever bathed in liquid chocolate? Nigel fielded these inquiries as 'gamely' as possible, explicitly avoiding sounding too 'game.' He was rewarded on his final trip with a £20 note, and a short, sharp slap on the bottom. 'Make sure you're pouring my wine later, sweetie,' cooed Miranda, and shut the door behind him, leaving him standing speechless in the hallway.

When Nigel arrived back at the entrance, he was hot, flustered and still seething with humiliation. He ditched the cap in a plant pot, and wished he could do the same to the socks as they were itching like hell. His discomfort must have been very visible, as Moira shifted her place along the row and shuffled in next to him as they waited for the next guest. 'Hang on in there, Nigel,' she whispered. 'The guests are always overexcited when they arrived, but they calm down a bit. They're like kids…'

Just then, a beautiful 1930's Super Sports Dalmain swept up the driveway, and smoothly circled to a halt right in front of them. Bob opened the car door. One, then two, stunning long legs, clad in tailored cream trousers and ending in impossibly high, black stiletto heels, were all that were visible from moment. Then the assembly were treated to the full display: Sydney Fox, or rather, 'Lady Hortensia Fortesquieu', was clad head to foot in 1930s style tailoring, modernised with a plummeting neckline that was made all the more revealing by the chiffon scarf that ornamented her graceful neck. If the view hasn't been so great, Nigel would have been much more resentful than he was. Nevertheless, part of him still wished that she didn't have to look _quite_ so amazing.

Sydney swept along the line of staff, blessing each of them with a benevolent greeting. 'Have the boy bring my bags to my room,' she then said carelessly, as she peeled off a pair of black leather travelling gloves and glided inside the mansion. Nigel, once again, gaped at her in disbelief and it took a sharp kick from Moira to spur him into action. Oh yes, Sydney Fox was owed some revenge!

……………………….

'I couldn't let them know that I knew you, could I?'

Nigel, sitting on the edge of an enormous bed and still slightly out of breath from carrying all her boxes, glared at Sydney.

'I thought that remaining aloof was the best way.'

'Yes, but you could have asked me politely to bring up your bags, rather than all this 'have the boy bring 'em up,' malarkey.' He folded his arms and let out a grumpy sigh. 'I've had enough of that from the others. I thought I could expect better from you!'

Sydney, who had been unpacking and admiring her newly purchased range of thirties style outfits, was struck by a sudden guilt. Maybe she had got a little carried away. She normally cared little for overtly glamorous clothes, but the period outfits were reminding her of her grandmother, Isabel. They made her feel somehow different. She stopped, and set herself down next to Nigel on the bed. He _did_ look cute, she thought.

'I'm sorry, Nigel,' said Sydney, 'I guess I was just getting into the act. Still, it was rude of me. I won't do it again.' She smiled optimistically.

Nigel relented a little. 'I'll forgive you this once,' he muttered, and then turned to look her straight in the face. 'But you owe me one – several, in fact, and I won't forget it.' He returned her smile, as she rose from the bed and continued unloading her wardrobe.

'So, have you found any clues about the statue yet?'

'Nothing solid', replied Nigel. There are a lot of wonderful statues and wall reliefs in the library, some of which I dated back to 2000 BC. No sign of the statue, though. I've not had time to look everywhere yet. This place is massive and my guess is that it's hidden well away.'

'We'll have a better look after dinner,' said Syd, thoughtfully. Then she spun around on her heels and gave him a coquettish grin.

'So, did they tell you who did it?'

Nigel was bewildered. 'Did what? Stole the statue?'

'No! Who did the murder! This _is_ a murder mystery weekend.'

'Nobody's been murdered yet,' said Nigel, not sharing her excitement. 'And, no, they didn't tell me. I suppose that's 'need to know' information.'

Just then a loud bell rang in the corridor. Nigel groaned, and rose to his feet. 'They did tell me, however, that I'm supposed to come every time that bloody bell rings. I suppose the next barking-mad guest has just arrived. Either that, or Moira thought I needed rescuing from you…'

'And who's Moira?' inquired Sydney, who seemed surprisingly taken aback by the first name reference. 'Is she one of the milkmaids? Surely there's been no time for rolling in the hay, yet?'

'Very funny!' said Nigel, not amused. 'She's just the only one who hasn't tried to eat me alive.' Nigel paused, wondering if he had overstated the negativity of his experience. Nevertheless, he decided to pursue this line. 'It's been no picnic so far for me, while all you've been doing is waltzing around pretending to be Greta Garbo.'

Sydney apologised again but, as Nigel left the room, she was still pondering which one of the girls Moira might be.

………………….

By the time Nigel got back to the front door, the sound of a helicopter, which he had first heard just after leaving Sydney's room, had risen to an almost deafening level. Sure enough, a small white chopper was just touching down on the lawn, not fifty metres from the front of the castle.

'It must be somebody really important!' conjectured Nigel to himself. A buzz of excitement swept through the girls, which reach fever pitch when they saw the figure which emerged from the helicopter.

'It's Peter Morrison!' squealed Tabatha, as a large, butch man, with cropped dark-blond wavy hair, swayed confidently down the steps of the chopper. Even though he was somewhat past the start of middle age and his waistline was beginning to expand, he had squeezed himself into a pair of tight, leather trousers and was wearing a loose white shirt, unbuttoned nearly down to his navel.

'Oh my god, I just _love_ 'Scorch Valley Sirens.'' Tabatha sounded as if she was on the verge of hyperventilation.

'Shhhhhhh, girls!' hushed Bob. 'Remember, while he's here you call him Baron Von Hoffanbang. We all stay in character, remember?'

They nodded excitedly, but Tabatha didn't stop squealing. Pansy was preening with joy. If her scarlet grin was any bigger it could have encompassed the whole of her face.

Nigel slumped at the end of the line, utterly unfazed. He had heard of Peter Morrison. He had even, although he would never admit it, watched 'Screech Valley Sirens' a couple of times. No red-blooded male would look at Mr Morrison with all the female flesh that was on offer on that show! 'The guy is bound to be an idiot,' he thought, 'and, thank goodness, he is very unlikely to be interested in me with 'the three Graces' to greet him.'

'Baron van Hoffanbang' sauntered up. He obviously hasn't entered into the spirit of the 1930s costume. His leathers were so tight that Nigel wondered if they might split. It would nice not be the focus of humiliation for a change.

The Baron held up his hands in a gesture of mock self-effacement.

'Girls! Girls! Girls!' he drawled, 'I have never, in my life, seen such a comely welcoming committee.' The actress's beamed as he hugged each one in turn and planted wet kisses on their lips. Nigel was quietly pleased to see Moira screw-up her nose in disgust once out of the Baron's eyeline.

The Baron shook Bob's hand, and Nigel thought he was going to be happily ignored. Unfortunate, however, the great man had spotted him .

'Well, hello there!' he said suavely. 'And you are?'

'Nigel,' said Nigel, reluctantly proffering a hand. The Baron should it vigorously, sending shock waves right through Nigel's body.

'And what did you do around here?'

Nigel wished the ground would just swallow him up right there.

'He's our stableboy,' giggled Pansy. 'He's cute, isn't he?'

'Yes, he is that,' said the Baron meditatively. Nigel wished he would take his eyes off him and return them to the surely more compelling sight of the milkmaids.

To Nigel's great relief, however, the Baron was soon distracted by an even more absorbing vista.

The great front door swung open, and out strode 'Lady Hortensia Fortesquieu,' a.k.a Sydney Fox. She was clad in the tightest pair of beige jodhpurs the world had ever seen, and a closely tailored red hunting jacket. On her head was a jauntily balanced and surprisingly stylish black riding helmet. In her hand, was a long black riding crop.

'Baron van Hoffanbang, I presume,' she barked at the television star, holding out a gracefully gloved hand for him to kiss. He took it and lifted it to his lips.

'I'm most charmed, Miss…?'

'_Lady_ Hortensia Fortesquieu,' said Sydney authoritatively. The Baron was lost for words, and stared at her agog. Sydney, however, was not messing around.

'I'm going riding,' she stated. 'I need the assistance of the stableboy!' She grabbed Nigel by the shirt, and briskly departed forthwith.

**More very soon, I promise. Today if I get a chance to proof. Life keeps getting in the way of my fanfic.**

**Thanks for reading. Please review.**


	4. Chapter 4: up to scratch?

**Disclaimers: as before.**

**Thanks for the reviews!**

When they had rounded the edge of the building and paused to take stock, Sydney was relieved to discover that Nigel was not that angry with her. He had, he claimed, become almost blasé to the sheer volume of humiliation that was being piled upon him. Anyway, he told her, she had retrieved him from a situation that he was glad to depart, even if she could have devised a more subtle method.

Sydney laughed. 'Sorry, maybe I was a little blatant. What do you think of the outfit?' She twirled. Nigel complemented her, and then eyed the riding crop nervously.

'What's that for?'

'It was all part of the costume. Does it scare you?' She lightly flicked it at his shoulder.

'Yes, if you're going to wave it at me like that, it does!' Nigel scowled, although he did find her get-up tantalisingly sexy. 'You still owe me one, remember?'

'Okay, Nigel. I'm sorry. Again. I just keep on getting rather carried away with the…atmosphere and the costumes.'

'Yes, well, I just love the costumes,' said Nigel sarcastically.

'You don't look so bad!' said Sydney, honestly. 'I can't say the breaches do it for me, but the waistcoat and shirt are quite sexy.'

'Really?' asked Nigel. He'd forgive anything that made him look sexy to Syd, and recalled her little suggestion about the hay.

'Really, it looks great,' she affirmed, then added thoughtfully, 'although maybe you ought to be slightly, well, dirtier. You know, more outdoorsy and rugged, like you've been doing some manual work, or something. Girls like that.'

Nigel was mortified and slightly resentful. She didn't fancy him like this, after all! 'Well, I'm sorry if I don't quite come up to scratch as your pseudo-historical, vaguely sadomasochistic female-fantasy!' Nigel folded his arms and leant back against the castle wall. 'Hmph.'

'I didn't say that...you're very sexy as you are! I mean it.' Sydney was perplexed. Part of her wanted to tell Nigel that she had uttered her previous sentiments carelessly. Sure, she liked 'rugged' men, but Nigel also fulfilled certain fantasies of hers, just as he was. Then again, when she fancied a guy, she usually let them know it without all this teasing. Maybe she really did like torturing him? Was she _that _evil?

Her sensible side decided it was time to move the topic of conversation swiftly on. 'Anyway, I'm glad I got you away from those people. I honestly do need your assistance. I was thinking: this Lord Bannockburgh is proving rather elusive. He didn't greet his guests. Have you met him yet?'

'No,' replied Nigel, also glad that the subject of discussion had changed. 'I was wondering about him as well. Apparently, he'll be here for dinner. He likes to remain enigmatic until then.'

'I'll see what I can get out of him tonight, then,' decided Sydney. 'For now, I figured we ought to have a look around the grounds. Will have our work cut out with the castle tonight, and there might be some clues around here.'

'Good idea,' Nigel was glad that they were back to business. 'Where shall we start?'

'Well, dressed as we both are, maybe we should start at the stables. Where are they?'

'I have absolutely no idea,' admitted Nigel.

'Some stable boy, you are!' laughed Sydney, and they set off to explore the estate.

…………..

In search of the stables, Sydney and Nigel passed through a formally laid out garden at the side of the house, planted with short, box bushes and ornamented with classical statues, mainly representing dancing nymphs. On inspection, the statues, like the ones in the library, proved to be of great antiquity. They were not Greek originals, but Roman replicas, themselves nearly two thousand years old. There was even a beautifully sculpted female nude who resembled the description given of the statue of Athena, but she certainly wasn't the Greek original that they were after.

Although walls and high trees sheltered the garden to an extent, Syd and Nigel agreed it was a travesty that such ancient works of art should be left at the mercy of the stormy Scottish elements. They were starting to get a bit of a bashing even that very afternoon. The persistent light drizzle was getting slightly heavier, the wind was getting stronger, and it looked liked they were in for a storm later. Nigel wondered ruefully whether he ought to go and jump up and down in one of the muddy puddles which were forming, on the off-chance that it might make Syd find him more attractive.

After this, however, the stables were not hard to find. The block was around the back of the house, typically designed with three wings arranged around a courtyard. Up one side, were stabled three lovingly cared for riding horses, who requested that their noses were patted. The back wing served as a barn, with a hayloft stacked with clean-looking, decorously arranged hay. On entering this area, Sydney glanced at Nigel and wondered if he was thinking what she was. Neither of them said anything.

The other wing, however, was firmly shut up, with the locked wooden doors, and securely closed shutters. Sydney rattled one of the doors. 'What's in here that somebody wants to hide?' she wondered. Nigel tried to pry open one of the shutters. 'They _might_ give,' he told her.

'I'd rather go in through the door,' murmured Sydney, and raised her foot to kick it in.

At that moment, something or somebody moved inside the close of section of the stables. There was the clear rustle, a thump and then nothing.

'Hello?' called Sydney, 'Is there anybody there?' Nothing.

'Bob said the only people on the island were those up at the house,' Nigel whispered. 'Him, Mrs Bob, the girls, me and the guests.'

'It can't be a guest,' returned Sydney, still in an undertone. 'Lord Bannockburgh?'

'Maybe,' said Nigel doubtfully. 'It _is_ his property; you can't just burst in on him.'

'His ancestors didn't have too much respect for property, did they?'

'Well,' said Nigel, forgetting their situation for a moment. 'That stimulating question reopens up the whole 'Elgin Marbles debate,' doesn't it? Should they be returned to the Parthenon by the British Museum, or shouldn't they? Obviously, Professor Sidney Fox has always done her best to make sure that relics have been returned, where possible, to their rightful places, but these are complex moral that we cannot overlook…' Nigel could have pursued this intellectual line of thought for hours.

Sydney looked at him, momentarily disconcerted, as he opened his mouth to develop his argument further.

'Interesting, Nigel, but can we save it?' Nigel shut his mouth and nodded. An important point, yes, but it could wait.

'Lord Bannockburgh?' called Sydney cheerfully, 'Hello? I'm one of your guests, I'd love to meet you, and to see in your, err, shed?'

Nothing. 'Hello? Anybody?'

'Right, I'm going in.' She raised her Jodhpur-clad leg, and the door fell victim to its power. The lock broke, and it swung in on its hinges.

Inside it was pitch black. There was no sound.

Sydney stepped in the doorway as Nigel peered over her shoulder. He didn't like the look of anything he couldn't see. ' I'll see if I can find some torches.'

Sydney felt for a light switch. None was forthcoming, so she said, 'Yeah, okay.'

Nigel scuttled off, and she stepped into the black.

Suddenly, there was a switching noise. A small object hurtled out of the dark, brushed by her ear, and was gone. Sydney shuddered, but she knew it was just a bat.

She sensed another scuffle in the dark. 'Another bat? A rat?' she thought, hopefully. As she moved into the room further, the door creaked shut behind her and it was pitch black. Before she could turn to let in the light, she heard a click like a torch switch, and suddenly a pallid white face was illuminated in the dark ahead of her. Sydney led out an involuntary cry of surprise. Then, her true instincts kicked in, literally. Her neat black riding boot made firm contact with the eerily lit jaw, which let out an 'oomph' noise and fell back into the darkness.

Unfortunately, in the second that Sydney paused to register where her assailant had fallen and to raise her riding crop for a possible strike, the door behind her was flung open with some force, knocking her sideways behind it. Nigel, although brandishing a pitchfork, was easily flung aside by the fleeing figure that was clad in a black cloak, with false fangs hanging half out of his genuinely bleeding mouth.

Nigel was too concerned for his boss to chase him. 'Syd?' he peered into the darkness, anxiously. Sydney Fox, her hat now unfashionably wonky, hurtled at him out of the darkness.

'Well, that was lame!'

'Sorry,' said Nigel sheepishly, still clasping his pitchfork but now placing it defensively between him and the professor.

'Not you,' said Sydney. She was mildly annoyed with Nigel for letting the man get away, but she remembered he'd had a hard day. 'That guy!' Sydney returned her hair to its immaculate previous arrangement with a few small shakes of her head. 'He was the least scary vampire I've ever seen. If he doesn't want us to go in there, there must be better ways of scaring us off. If that's all we're up against, this is going to be easy.'

Nigel sighed, and tossed his pitchfork back on the haystack. It hadn't been 'easy' so far. All that humiliation by milkmaids, then silly costumes, and now he wasn't 'rugged' enough to fulfill Syd's stableboy fantasy!

**Please go straight on to chapter 5. Thanks. **

**Sorry for being meant to Nigel. I have an evil plot bunny. Or maybe its just me! He will get revenge on everyone, somehow!**


	5. Chapter 5: Dinner with Hannibal

**Disclaimers: as before.**

Dinner was at eight, but most people were 'fashionably' late. Among the tardy were Sydney and, more disturbingly for the rest of the staff, Pansy.

The latter's absence was particularly annoying for Nigel, as he was co-opted onto the waiting staff to replace her. Previously, he had just been allotted the task of pouring the wine and answering simple questions about the plotline of the murder mystery. He still didn't know who was going to 'do it,' but he was allowed to let on that a pantry maid had recently been fired, and that mysterious strangers had been seen in the castle after dark. None of this he relished, but he knew he could just about cope. He wasn't so sure about delivering the food.

At ten past eight, the room was filled with twenty guests, more overpaid and under-worked pleasure seekers having arrived while Sydney and Nigel were investigating the stables. There was still no sign of Sydney, Pansy or, indeed, of a genial host.

The Baron on the other hand, was making his presence very well known. The star of the now-cancelled 'Scorch Valley Sirens,' had little interest in entering into character for the party, even though everyone had been told that after the dinner, things would start to 'happen'. Ever the 'star', the Baron was regaling whoever would listen about two films which he had 'in the pipeline:' a NYPD thriller, and a supernatural science-fiction romance set on a recently declassified planet, which he assured everyone would 'change the way the world thought about Peter Morrison.'

'Its going to take more than a lousy sci-fi flick to make anybody think he's more than a washed-up, has-been,' whispered Moira to Nigel. 'He's got more wrinkles than the prune pudding!' Nigel laughed, and proceeded to serve bread rolls to the opposite end of the table to the Baron. Fortunately, Tabatha was hoping for a part in the new movie, and announced she was going to be doing _all_ of the Baron's waitressing. Unfortunately for Nigel, however, 'Miss Miranda Macduff' was at his end of the table, and was making him very nervous.

She said she 'just worshipped him' in his waiters' outfit, which was, he conceded, mildly less degrading than his earlier apparel. It consisted of some conventional, although very tight-fitting, black trousers, a plain white shirt and a fairly silly tartan bow tie. As requested, he had slicked back his hair with some nasty cheap hair gel that his employers provided. Miss Macduff liked that, too.

Disaster first struck as he was leaning over her to serve a bread roll to her neighbour, Colonel Milford. Miss Macduff observed that the 'material in your slacks looks really soft and pliable.' To test the theory she stuck her hand in his pocket.

Nigel let out a small cry of alarm, and the bread roll twanged out of its metal servers and flew across the table, knocking over a still-empty wine glass. The colonel grumbled into his moustache and called Nigel a 'clumsy oaf,' while he apologised profusely. Lucy Milford smiled at him sympathetically. She had obviously been grumbled at through the moustache many times. From opposite, Lucy could also see that Miss Macduff was still fondling the trouser material at the top of Nigel's thigh.

After that, Nigel's table service went rapidly downhill. He didn't seem to be able to hold anything steady, and the melon and grapefruit towers all tumbled into unseemly piles before they reached the table. It didn't help that Moira and Tabatha were both consummate professionals: they had both been out-of-work actresses for some time. He was on the verge of simply running away to find where Sydney was, when the professor finally arrived. She burst through the doors in an abrupt fashion that caused conversation in the room to cease for a second.

As ever, she looked stunning. She was wearing a black evening dress, which hung off-the-shoulder on one side. It reminded Nigel of the one that Joan Fontaine wore in the 1940s film Rebecca, when she was trying to be more like her glamorous predecessor, the first Mrs. de Winter. Nevertheless, Sydney was far from immaculately groomed. Several strands of her hair had fallen from a once-neat bun on the back of her head. She was holding her stilettos in her hand, her feet still clad in a pair of solid boots. She was also slightly out of breath. Realising the eyes of the room were upon her, she smiled as naturally she could.

'I've been for walk. It's so lovely out there that I forgot the time. Silly me!'

The guests looked puzzled - it sounded like there was a force ten gale blowing outside and it was pelting it down with rain - but they soon returned to their melon starters. Sydney took her place at the table, and then gestured wildly at Nigel with her eyes for him to come over.

He came over, bringing the basket of the accursed bread rolls. 'Would you like a bread roll, ma'am?'

'Love one.' She grabbed his trouser pocket as he leant over to serve, pulling him in close.

'I wish people would stop doing that,' thought Nigel, although he certainly preferred it being Syd to anyone else. 'What is it?' he hissed.

'I found it! The statue!' whispered Sydney, urgently. 'There's a secret passage in the library leading to some sort of temple... I couldn't reach it, though. It was protected by traps. There was some sort of inscription, which I thought would show me how to get at it, but it was too dark to read. From what I made out, it was in Greek. Then the door started to shut behind me and I barely escaped in time.'

'Nigel! Honey!' Miss Macduff's salacious accents came wafting across the room. 'We'd love some wine over here, darling.'

'We certainly would, man,' thundered Colonel Milford. 'What the devil are you up to?'

'Coming!' smiled Nigel, through gritted teeth. He sounded oddly like Basil Fawlty.

'We'll go back after dark,' said Sydney quickly, as Nigel reluctantly tore himself away from her grip.

……………

Pansy finally flounced in just as the main dish was being served. Despite the disapproval of the other waitresses, and some angry shouting in the kitchen by Mr. and Mrs. Bob, she was unperturbed by either her lateness or her colleagues ire. She made no apology, but took over Nigel's waiting duties, leaving him to take over wine responsibilities for the whole table.

This, of course, meant he had to venture up the end of the table where the Baron was holding court. The said 'great man' was disturbingly pleased to see him.

'Hey, buddy!' he cried enthusiastically, as Nigel approached as inconspicuously as possible with a bottle of fine Bordeaux.

'Good evening,' said Nigel, with a waiters' unfamiliarity. 'Wine, Madam?' It would only be correct to serve the ladies first.

Eventually, though, he had to serve the Baron. 'Are you on the Bordeaux or the Chianti?'

'Chianti, Nigel, I prefer the Chianti. It goes so much better with the dish.' The Baron leant intimately towards Nigel.

'Do you have any fava beans? I like them with my flesh,' announced the Baron in a theatrical whisper that was clearly intended for an audience. The women seated around him tittered.

'Sir is a great wit,' said Nigel, dryly and unimpressed. He was getting into the 'Jeeves' act. It helped keep a distance. Besides, this guy was creepy enough already, without having any pretensions to being Hannibal Lector.

Disaster struck again, however, when he returned to the table the pour the Baron's wine of choice. He was just leaning over when, to his horror, he heard the television star observe that the 'material in your slacks looks really soft and pliable.' He saw a chunky, tanned hand reach for his pocket.

'Not you as well!' his mind screamed in alarm. He jerked his body sideways, out of the Baron's reach, and rebounded off the buxom woman sitting next to him. The force caused him to slop the Chianti right across the Baron's plate, and send the contents of the well-endowed ladies glass straight into his lap.

The Baron jumped to his feet, flicking the liquid from his tuxedo and trousers. Sydney looked across from the other side of the table, and cringed. 'Poor Nigel,' she thought, wondering if she ought to subtly intervene.

'That man is a clumsy oaf! Didn't I say so?' barked the Colonel.

Nigel backed away from the clearly displeased actor, who now loomed over him to his full height of six foot four. 'I'm terribly sorry…um, let me get you another glass. Can I help clean it up?'

He regretted this last line as soon as he said it. The Baron forgot his anger as he discerned Nigel's obvious discomfort, and grinned hungrily.

'Don't worry, Nigel. No real harm done, eh?' Nigel was not quite ready to let out a sigh of relief.

'Will you come to the bathroom with me to help clear it up?'

Nigel wanted to say 'not in a billion years,' but was still searching desperately for a politer refusal when Sydney began to sob violently.

'I really do love you, Syd,' he muttered under his breath as he dashed off to the aid of the destitute woman.

'What's wrong, dear' asked a kindly old gentleman seated next to Sydney.

'Oh, it's the spilt wine,' she wailed. 'It reminds me of my wedding night! I was deserted in our honeymoon suite after I spilt a 1922 vintage Chianti Classico all over my new husband's trousers.'

'The bastard!' exclaimed the Colonel, then bellowed at Nigel 'See the harm you've done?' Most of the other guests were beginning to think that all the events of the past few moments were some form of contrived theatricals that would make sense as part of the murder plot.

The Baron, deserted both by Nigel and his audience, stormed out of the dining room to clean-up his trousers himself.

…………..

The scream came as everybody was finishing their deserts. It was a piercing, prolonged and agonised wail, which echoed through every tottering turret and dank cellar of the great house. A bristle of excitement swept across the room. The party guests knew the fun was about to begin.

Mrs. Bob, still dressed as a cook, came bursting into the room, tears of horror and distress running down her face. 'He's dead! Lord Bannockburgh! He's lying in the library!'

'My God, she's a good actress,' exclaimed Nigel, and followed the general throng towards the 'scene of the crime.' Sydney pushed through the flock so as to be able to speak to him.

'I hope this doesn't make it difficult for us to come back to the library tonight,' she whispered. Nigel nodded. He hoped so too. He wanted to get that statue, and get out of there before he had to have anything more to do with the Baron and Miss Macduff.

Sure enough, Lord Bannockburgh, who was, of course, the man who had tried to scare Sydney earlier, was slumped across the desk. He was still wearing his black, vampire's cape but now his skin was even more deadly white. A whisky glass had fall forward out of his hand.

'He's been poisoned!' said Miss Macduff. 'How exciting!'

The Baron leaned in over the body. 'Wait,' he said. 'What's this?' he pointed to two small marks on the corpse's neck.

'Vampires!' screeched Miss Macduff. 'This is wonderful!'

The crowd was so absorbed by the body that nobody yet had noticed that the secret passage, which Sydney had discovered earlier behind the bookcases, was unconcealed. The hidden door was ever so slightly ajar. 'I didn't leave it like that,' whispered Syd to Nigel. 'Damn. I hope people won't be snooping down there as part of their investigations.' She sidled over and shut the door again.

The Colonel, however, was not enjoying the game at all. He was complaining bitterly to poor Moira that he had not got what he paid for.

'Dammit, girl,' he thundered. 'What the deuce is Bannockburgh playing at? I paid him handsomely so that my wife could be murdered - she'd rather spend the weekend in her bedroom anyway – and I could be the murderer! He said I could spend the next two days shooting while all these simpletons worked out the clues. I can't stand these Cluedo-affairs, but there's darned good hunting on this island!'

Moira apologised, and said there must have been some sort of mix up. Mrs. Bob was still sobbing uncontrollably and being comforted by Tabatha. Then, Mr. Bob, who a surprisingly subdued Pansy had been to fetch, burst into the room, let out a short expletive, and dashed over to the body. He pushed the animated guests out of the way, and felt Lord Bannockburgh's pulse.

'Somebody call the police,' he said somberly. 'This wasn't in the plot. He's really been murdered.'

**Thanks for reading. Please review.**


	6. Chapter 6: who did it?

**Disclaimers: as before.**

**Thanks so much for the kind reviews. I'm glad I've made some of you laugh! Oh, and sorry to the few of you who read the unproofed versions of Chps 3 and 4 I accidentally put up on Monday. Whoops! Anyone interested in betaing? I can never see all my own mistakes. Please email me (see profile.)**

Mr Bob's morbid revelation was followed by a moment of awestruck silence and then a short period of utter pandemonium.

Miss Macduff screamed, and collapsed dramatically into a large leather chair. When everyone ignored her, she weakly requested that someone 'get that charming boy to bring me something reviving.' Everybody persisted to ignore her. Colonel Milford cried 'what the devil,' and then seemed rather disappointed that he wasn't going to be able to pursue his grievance about the shooting. Most of the guests murmured to each other nervously, while a thin, redhead woman, who claimed to have had nurses training before she married her millionaire, tentatively examined the body. She conjectured knowledgeably that because he was still warm, he had not been dead for long.

'What do we do now?' whispered Nigel to Sydney. 'We can't exactly negotiate with a corpse, and taking the statue after what's just happened will look, well, like grave robbing!'

'Yeah,' said Sydney, seriously, 'and it would make us look a lot like suspects.'

'I hadn't thought of that,' said Nigel, slightly alarmed.

'We'd better make sure nobody finds out why we're here.'

'What'll we do with the police arrive? They'll ask for id. and know who you are instantly! They'll arrest us!' Nigel, not unreasonably, was starting to panic.

'But we didn't do it, did we?' hissed Sydney.

'They don't know that!' Worst-case scenarios were now bombarding Nigel's brain. 'I'm going to end up in a Glasgow jail!'

'No you won't…' Sydney was unable to reassure Nigel any further as Moira, who had gone to make the significant call to the police, returned to the room and a hush fell again over the agitated guests. The news was not entirely surprising: the storm had brought down the fragile phone cables that connected the island with the mainland. The ferry could never negotiate the mountainous waves in the straits. Of course, everyone knew there were no signals on their mobiles. They were completely cut off until at least the next morning.

Confusion reigned again. 'Heavens!' cried Miss Macduff, 'That means we're all stuck here with the murderer! I'll be slaughtered in my sleep!'

'That wouldn't be a bad thing,' murmured Sydney. Nigel silently agreed.

'We'd better split up for now,' whispered Sydney. 'It's best we keep our identities, and that we're working together, concealed as long as possible. With no authorities to explain ourselves to, or Maria to back us up, we're going to sound kind of dubious.' Nigel nodded, and reluctantly sidled away from his boss.

Before Sydney had time to ponder what to do next, Mr Bob clapped his hands and called politely for the attention of everyone in the room. He suggested that they should all return to their bedrooms and stay there till the morning when everything could be sorted out. The Baron and Colonel Milford, however, were having none of it.

'What! So we can be slaughtered in our sleep like that poor woman said? Not likely!' The Colonel stormed out of the room, with a shout of 'I'll be back!'

Several of the other guests went to follow him, but their way was barred by the not inconsiderable bulk of the Baron. 'Sorry folks, but there is a darn good chance the murderer is in this room.' The actor sounded like he was doing a slightly too jovial impression of Clint Eastwood. 'We just can't you let ya' go until we've worked out which one of your good selves did it.'

'Hey, what about him?' inquired Sydney, motioning at the door from which the Colonel had departed.

'He's a member of the British armed forces,' said the Baron, impressed by his own instant response to a difficult question. 'How can you question his…err, integrity?'

'Actually, he's a quantity surveyor,' said Lucy Milford timidly, but nobody heard her as panic and commotion broke out again. It was interrupted this time by the return of the Colonel with a large double-barrelled shot-gun.

There were several screams, and Miss Macduff cried 'he's going to massacre us all!'

The Baron and the Colonel, however, forcefully argued that the shot-gun was merely for the protection for of the upstanding citizens that made up the majority of the people in the room. Sydney had severe doubts about this, but realise that 'kicking ass' at that moment would only bring suspicion down on her and maybe cause an innocent bystander to get shot. She glanced across at Nigel, who was cowering in the corner behind a large Grecian Urn. He was desperately trying to avoid eye contact with Miss Macduff, who was muttering his name in anguish as she drooped in the leather chair. Neither she, nor Nigel, seemed to be in immediate danger, so Sydney decided to let things be.

'Who do it then? Somebody must have seen something. Come on. Cough up!' the Colonel scanned the gun slowly across the room, eyeballing each guest or member of staff as its aim rested briefly on each of them. As it reached Pansy, he paused for a moment and then cried 'You!'

Pansy screamed and jumped in the air. 'It wasn't me! It wasn't! He was always good to me… I couldn't have killed him, the poor old panda-bear.' She started to sob. 'I was very fond of him.'

The Baron leant over and whispered in the Colonel's ear. 'That girl was out of the room for half of the meal.'

Everybody knew this, and her affectionate term 'the poor old panda-bear,' made those who did not already suspect it, realise that there had been something other than a platonic 'employee-employer' relationship between her and the Lord. A rumour spread round the room, its origins unclear, that she had persuaded the old aristocrat to leave her the house in his will. Despite Pansy's tears and pleas, it was decided that she should be incarcerated until the police arrived. If she was innocent, it would be ascertained then. However, the Colonel was not finished. He continued to scan his gun across the room, and next brought it to rest on Sydney.

'You! You've been acting strangely all-night, woman. And you lied about going on a walk. It's raining cats and dogs out there and you were bone dry. What have you got to say for yourself?'

'Nothing, except for that I'm innocent,' said Sydney sweetly, relying on her feminine wiles. 'I'm just a guest. Why would I kill the Lord?'

'Except for you're not just a guest, are you Miss Fox?' The Baron smiled slyly.

'Excuse me?' said Sydney, but she knew that she was rumbled. There was a frisson of recognition among the onlookers as the name 'rung bells.'

'Yes, Professor Fox, and I know what you're here for.' The Baron was obviously extremely pleased with himself, and assumed a particular high and mighty tone as he continued his announcement. 'You're here to get your hands on a very valuable statue that Lord Bannockburgh, quite within his rights, refused to loan to a museum in Athens. Did you murder him when he wouldn't let you have it?'

Sydney raised her hands. There was no point arguing. Somehow, he knew the story. The last accusation had to be refuted, though. 'I admit, I'm a relic Hunter,' she said slowly. 'But I don't kill innocent people. If any of you really know about me, you'd be aware of that.'

'That may be so, Miss Fox,' leered the Baron, 'but we can't take that risk. I'm afraid we will have to lock you away with the other young lady until the police arrive.'

'Okay,' said Sydney. She wasn't afraid of these jerks. She knew she could 'take' them at any time. Her major concern at that moment was whether they knew about Nigel. If they didn't, she decided it would be best to let them lock her up so he could continue to act 'undercover,' to find the relic, the murderer, or whatever was necessary.

She looked over at her assistant, as unnoticeably as possible. Nigel had emerged from behind the Grecian Urn and, when he caught her attention, motioned frantically with his eyes and a small shrug of the shoulders. What should he do? Sydney responded with a sharp shake of the head, looking away from him so as to not be too obvious. She hoped he understood that this meant that he should 'do nothing for now.'

Unfortunately, the Colonel noticed their moment of eye contact. He swung the aim of the gun on to Nigel, his eyes simply bulging with excitement. 'You!'

'Me?' squeaked Nigel, and stumbled backwards in fright, checking his retreat only inches away from toppling the Urn.

'Yes, you! The clumsy oaf! You've been conspiring and whispering with that woman all evening.'

'H...have I?'

Sydney's bit her lip and hoped he would deny everything. She did not dare try to communicate with him.

The Baron strode over to Nigel and towered over him again, folding his arms. 'Are you working for the Relic Hunter, Nige?' His feigned friendly tones were loaded with menace.

'No! No…?' Nigel backed up until he was pressed precariously against the Grecian urn. The Baron leaned towards him, narrowing his eyes. Nigel felt he was back at boarding school, being persecuted by his beastly headmistress. His rescuer, however, came from an unlikely quarter.

'Leave him alone, you bully!' Miss Macduff had suddenly revived. She pulled herself up from her chair, swiftly adjusted her hair, and thrust her way officiously through the intrigued spectators. 'What woman wouldn't whisper 'sweet nothings' to such an attractive young man? That…that Relic Hunter has been lusting over him all evening,' she glared at Sydney disdainfully. 'She couldn't keep her hands off of him. I bet you've hated it, haven't you?' Here Miss Macduff patted an increasingly disbelieving Nigel on the cheek.

'Poor lamb,' she cooed, and then rounded firmly on the Baron. The big man found he was the one backing away. 'It's such a long time since you've exuded any youthful charm that I don't suppose you remember what it was like!'

'Well, you can talk, ma'am!' retorted the Baron. Miss Macduff slapped him.

Despite her predicament, Sydney couldn't help laughing. Nigel subtly sidled back behind the Grecian Urn, hoping he'd done what Syd intended him to do. The accusations against him were soon forgotten as general anarchy descended once more.

…………………………..

It was eventually decided that the most secure location for the prisoners was in a room at the top of the Gothic tower with the spire. Intended to be a safe, the chamber could only be entered through one, heavy metal door which had a sturdy, nigh-un-pickable lock and which was accessed only at the top of a narrow, winding spiral staircase. Outside its only, tiny window, was a sheer one hundred foot drop. Mr Bob muttered something about how he hoped the tower was still structurally sound. However, he had long since relinquished any control over the proceedings to the domineering Baron and the armed and potentially dangerous Colonel.

Sydney went quietly, placing her faith in Nigel to 'do something' if matters became urgent. As she was frogmarched out of the room, with the colonels shot gun at her back, her assistant peeped out from behind his Urn, looking particular bewildered. Sydney hoped that her trust was not misplaced, optimistically recalling all the times he had 'come through' for her in the past. She still figured that fighting her way out, at that time, would only make things worse. After all, when she escaped, there was no way she could leave the island until morning. Moreover, she didn't want to hurt the rather elderly Colonel. Bumbling old fool that he was, she had a feeling he was really harmless, as long as you weren't a deer or a pheasant. The Baron, however, she was not so sure about...

……………

To reach the tower, they had to cross the courtyard, and enter it through a narrow, pointed arched door. Once inside, there were no electric lights, and Mr Bob turned on a torch. The silence was broken by the eerie flutter of wings, like Sydney had heard earlier: more bats, and probably pigeons. The flashlight revealed that the tower had few floors in it, and that the space above them gaped upwards into murk. The spiral staircase, barely wide enough for one large person to squeeze up, was accessed through another small, arched door, opposite the entrance. Mr Bob led the way, followed by the prisoners, the Baron, and the Colonel with the gun.

'There are 242 steps,' said Mr Bob, 'and they're a bit uneven in places, so be careful.'

Nobody said anything, and the small procession climbed up behind him, feeling their way through the seemingly endless gloom. Sydney, through her doubts, prayed that she had made the right decision.

**Thanks for reading. Reviews, as ever, are appreciated. There will be more by the weekend depending on how much of a chance I get to write! **


	7. Chapter 7: the keys

**Disclaimers: as before.**

**Thanks to everybody for the reviews. Just a warning: this chapter is a bit darker than the previous ones. **

Once the suspects had been removed, all the other guests and staff agreed that they should shut themselves in their rooms as soon as possible. However, when Mr Bob finally came to close-up the library with the body in it, he discovered that Nigel was still crouching behind the large Grecian urn.

'What are you doing there?' he exclaimed.

………………..

In truth, there were two reasons why Nigel had remained where he was. The first was because Ms Macduff had now done him a 'favour.' He was rather apprehensive of what she might expect from him in return and was doing his best to stay out of her way. The second reason was the more compelling. He had discovered a very interesting inscription on the back of the Urn. Once the room was empty he'd retrieved his glasses from his trouser pocket, thankfully still in one piece after the evening's events, and proceeded to read.

Although Grecian in style, Nigel soon realised that it was actually an early 19th century replica. The words engraved on the back, on the other hand, were in Ancient Greek. Once translated, however, he could tell that the prose was clearly of the English 'Romantic' era, indicating that it too was no older than the vase it was written on. Nigel was not terribly surprised by this; he knew that most educated people in the early 19th century were well versed in the classics, much as he was.

The poem did not have the style or substance of a Shelley or a Blake, and was the work of an amateur poet. Its theme was the release of a beautiful woman, who had been locked away by some kind of evil monster, scarred with bad memories and years of unpleasant deeds. The name of the monster was difficult to discern; the writer seemed not to have known the real ancient Greek word to use. Nigel roughly worked it out to be an equivalent of _vrykolakas_, a relatively modern Greek word for…vampire. Nigel shuddered. Those Regency decadents had been into some weird, kinky stuff! The final line particularly attracted his attention. It translated roughly as: 'to release the beauty, blood must spill, and darkness must meet light.'

'To release beauty?' wondered Nigel. 'Surely this may give us some clues to releasing the statue of the Goddess?' He was just thinking how he didn't like the sound of the 'blood spilling' bit, when he was interrupted by the return of Mr Bob and his urgent inquiry as to what Nigel was up to.

'Nothing!' exclaimed Nigel, in an overly cheery tone. 'Well…not _nothing_, of course… I was err, admiring the books. I _am_ history student, you know! I love books… can't get enough of 'em.' Nigel grinned awkwardly. Mr Bob could see that he was floundering for good explanation.

'You love books so much that you're happy to read in a library with a corpse in it?'

Nigel's fixed grin faded slightly. He had been trying not to think about that. Fortunately, Mr Bob didn't think that Nigel was the sort to murder anybody, or even to be conspiring to steal a statue. In fact, he just assumed that the 'stableboy' was acting strangely because he was traumatised by the events of the evening.

'Never mind,' said Mr Bob kindly. 'You'd better get upstairs to bed. And lock the door! I only feel slightly safer with those two women locked away.'

Nigel agreed, and followed Mr Bob out of the room. Mr Bob turned the key in the lock, and then asked Nigel if he'd like to wait a few minutes. He and Mrs Bob could then join him on his journey up to the servants' bedrooms in the attic. The couple had thought it was safer to be with all the other staff, rather than alone in their little cottage when murderers might be on the loose. 'Safety in numbers, eh?' said Mr Bob.

Nigel declined the offer. He said he'd be fine.

'Are you sure?' asked Bob and then said earnestly, 'Between you and me, I'm not sure we've got the right people locked away. I don't trust that...that TV star.'

Nigel looked serious and nodded as if in agreement, but said nothing. He had shared Mr Bob's suspicions for some time. The Baron had been out of the room for ages when he went to clean his clothes. Okay, so it looked like an accident, but what if he had made Nigel spill the wine deliberately? In Nigel's mind, and obviously that of Mr Bob, it had to be either him, or Pansy, who had killed Lord Bannockburgh.

Mr Bob concluded that he 'wouldn't want to confront that man about it. Some things are best left to the police.'

Nigel said he'd be on his guard, but maintained that he would rather go up to bed alone.

………………..

Nigel crossed the hall and let himself out through the door that led to the servants' staircase. As soon as he heard Bob's footsteps fade away down to the kitchens, where he had gone to retrieve his wife, he crept straight back out. This time he lightly padded up the wide, carpeted, main staircase that led to the guests' first-floor landing. Up there, the lights were out and it was dark. He sat down on the floor in a murky, concealed corner, and pondered his next move.

In all honesty, he wasn't entirely sure what Sydney meant him to do. Maybe she wanted him just to do nothing and wait till morning, when she could prove her innocence? This was appealing. He really _did_ just want to go to bed and curl up with a good book. However, he expected she really wanted him to get her out somehow, especially now that he may have a lead on the relic. Besides, he hated the thought of her stuck at the top of that horrid, and rather precarious looking tower. Mr Bob had said it might not be safe. What if the wind, which he could hear wailing outside, was to bring the spire down?

His mind made up, the next thing he needed to do was look for the key to Sydney's cell. He had a hunch that in houses like this, sets of keys would be kept in a cabinet somewhere in the kitchens and utility rooms. That was where he would start.

He waited a few minutes until he heard Mr and Mrs Bob crossing the main hall on their way to the servants' staircase. Then the lights went out, the door latch clicked, and all was black.

………………………..

The basement level of the great house was like a labyrinth. In his quest for keys, Nigel soon realised there was the least a dozen kitchen rooms, and then countless numbers of smaller pantries and storage rooms, each one of which seemed to lead to numerous others. With few, high windows, he had no choice but to turn on the lights, gambling that no one else was down there to see. Most of the rooms were empty, containing nothing but crumbling white tiles and bare wooden work surfaces and shelves. This was not a good thing: however quiet Nigel tried to be, his footsteps, which sounded on the stone flagged floors, were amplified by echoes.

After nearly twenty minutes of increasing frustration, Nigel opened a large wooden door, in the corner of a vacant pantry, which turned out to be a large cupboard. Mounted upon the wall inside, was a sizeable glass case, full of bunches of keys. It was locked, but it was not hard to pick open. Several years under Sydney's tutelage had certainly taught him the basics of breaking and entry.

The major problem was that there were, literally, hundreds of keys. He could not take them all. He needed to make an educated guess about which ones were most likely to open a large, re-enforced door to an early 19th century safe-room. Most of the keys were small, but he imagined what he was looking for was large and chunky. There were only around a dozen keys that fitted that description, all of which were lumped together in one large bunch. He took them off the hook.

'Nigel! What are you doing?'

Nigel jumped and swung around to find himself face-to-face with Moira. Not only had she entered the chamber, but she had crossed the room to be standing just inches away without him even noticing. Her waitress's outfit was now concealed by a large, black cape.

'I'm… I'm lost?' For the second time in barely over an hour, Nigel grinned awkwardly to cover a lie. This time he was even less convincing.

'No you're not,' said Moira sharply, but not too crossly. You were looking for the keys to release the prisoners from the tower. Why?'

Nigel made an executive decision. It would be neither gentlemanly or, he hoped necessary, to lie to such an intelligent and perceptive young woman. He resolved to tell her the truth, and as concisely as possible he conveyed to her the whole story.

Moira listened intently, showing little emotion. When he reached the end of the saga, pleading that he really _had_ to rescue Sydney at this point rather than waiting for the police, she nodded, as if in agreement. After a moment's pause, she pointed to the clunky bunch of keys in his hand.

'They're not the right keys for the tower.' She took them from his hand, reached up, and placed them back on the hook. She then picked off a ring from which dangled several much smaller, more delicate, modern keys. 'It's one of these,' she said, passing them to him.

Nigel, who was a little surprised by her easy acceptance of the truth, thanked her and then scrutinised the keys. They didn't seem right for a large, safe door. Moira read the doubt on his face.

'You can trust me,' she said. Before he had time to reply, she leaned in and kissed him chastely on the lips. Nigel wasn't expecting this, but he registered that her lips felt strangely cold.

Moira drew her face away a little, ascertaining his startled reaction. Then, grasping the back of his hair with her hand, she pulled his head forward and plunged back in for a deep, sensual kiss. Nigel could not help but respond. At its conclusion, he found that her other hand was thrust up the back of his shirt, caressing the curve of his back. His own had somehow wandered under her cape and were cupped around her pert, miniskirted backside. His glasses, which he had put back on to examine the keys, were askew and they had tumbled back against the key cabinet, which had clicked shut.

When his faculties returned to him, he swiftly removed his hands from their mischievous resting place. 'Sorry! I…I…' Nigel was nigh speechless. Not that he entirely objected, but he was not sure he was quite ready, or willing, to have an erotic entanglement with this girl. Moira, mainly to his relief, did not seem to be interested in taking their little affair any further.

'Trust me,' she said breathlessly, and left the room as hurriedly as she must have entered it.

Nigel stood motionless for a minute, and then removed his glasses and readjusted his hair, admiring his reflection in the key cabinet. He was starting to feel like a bit of a stud. Nobody around here seemed to be able to resist him! However, he wasn't sure that he _could_ trust this woman who suddenly thrown herself at him, out of the blue. Moira seemed rather, well, strange. He decided that he should take both sets of keys up to the tower.

Unfortunately, when he attempted to open the key cabinet again, he discovered that it was jammed firmly shut. He knew he would have to break the glass, but was worried this would make a lot of noise. He resolved that he should try to make it up to the cell, and attempt to free Sydney with Moira's keys, before taking such drastic action.

…………………….

Nigel was entering one of the last kitchen rooms when his progress was abruptly checked. Somebody or something emerged from behind the door and seized him roughly by the shirt collar. Before he had time to react, a second hand laid itself firmly upon his shoulder.

'Where are you off to, Nigel?' The Baron's voice was low and sinister.

'I'm…I'm going to bed?' replied Nigel, uncertainly. He wondered desperately: where had Moira got to? He hoped it wasn't just him and the Baron left down in the servants' quarters. What did this obnoxious actor want…and who gave him the right to manhandle him? Nigel tried to jerk himself away from the Baron's grip, his eyes scanning hopefully for some prop to fight back with. Unfortunately, even though the kitchen was used a little, there was little on the shelves and certainly no fortuitously placed bottle of olive oil to pour across the floor. Mrs Bob was a rather old-fashioned cook, and preferred to use butter or lard.

Nigel never got far enough to seize even the smallest weapon. As he pulled away, the Baron grabbed the sleeve of his shirt, and pulled Nigel back into his grip, twisting his arms painfully behind him.

'Ow! You're hurting me! What are you playing at?'

The Baron leant down so Nigel could feel his breathing against the side of his neck. Like Moira's lips, it felt strangely cold, sending a shiver down his spine.

'You should have locked yourself in you room like a good boy, hours ago, Nigel. You were told it wasn't safe wandering around this house after dark with murderers on the loose. I wonder, were you off to rescue your 'damsel in distress'?'

'I don't know what you're talking about. Let me go!' How could the Baron know about him and Sydney? He had only told…Moira. Nigel began to struggle, but to little avail. The Baron may have been the wrong side of forty, but he obviously pumped iron regularly. He was a very big guy. Nigel tried kicking back at him, striking his shins. The Baron responded likewise, landing a blow that temporarily knocked Nigel's feet from under him. All of this just gave the increasingly villainous-seeming TV star a chance to tighten his hold on his captive.

'There's no point struggling, Nigel. You're Sydney Fox's teaching assistant, and you were going up to the tower to release her. I'm afraid I can't let you do that.'

'But she's innocent…ow! My arm!' Nigel grimaced as he felt his elbow wrench.

The Baron was taking obvious pleasure in causing Nigel pain, and chuckled. He leaned in close again, his mouth hovering inches from Nigel's neck. Nigel momentarily froze. God, this guy was creepy!

The Baron began to whisper in his ear: 'Innocent or not, by the morning, the murdered corpse of Lord Bannockburgh will have been joined by that of your friend, who will plummet to her death in a daring, but doomed, escape attempt.'

Nigel was horrified. Sydney was in more danger than he had ever realised. He began to struggle harder than ever.

'You bastard! You won't lay a finger on Sydney…ow! Stop it!' The Baron laughed again, tightening the armlock. Nigel took a sharp intake of breath. Exerting himself didn't seem to be helping his escape; this man seemed supernaturally strong. He stopped struggling, hoping that his brawny assailant might let his guard down.

Unfortunately, the Baron seemed remarkably composed. He lightened the pressure on Nigel's arm, but still kept a powerful hold on him. 'I suppose you're wondering why?'

'Not really,' replied Nigel, deadpan, 'You're obviously barking…' Then it struck him that, if this diabolical fool was willing to talk, he might learn something useful. 'Why do you need Sydney dead?' he ventured. 'Do you want it to look like she committed the murder, to cover up that _you_ did it?'

The baron leant forward and whispered creepily in his ear again. 'No. That silly bit of blonde fluff covers all of that. I want the lovely Professor dead because she's after the same thing as me. And I can't let her take it away... but enough of that,' he gave Nigel's arm a fresh twist, causing him to gasp in pain again. 'The only question which remains for me now is what I do with the 'stableboy'.'

'Lock me in the stables?' said Nigel hopefully. Anywhere out of the house had to be an improvement, and there had to be a chance of escape.

'Why would I do that when I'm in a castle with some perfectly good dungeons?'

Nigel gulped but then pondered what the silly man was on about. 'I'm afraid that you won't find a dungeon in a place like this,' he retorted. 'It was built in 1819! You'll find it's just got kitchens, storerooms, and maybe a wine cellar. The stable will have to do.' Nigel wondered if he was pushing his luck.

'Ah!' said the Baron, knowingly. 'I'm afraid you will find that the late Lord's ancestor had some special features built into this little place. You know, for the full 'Gothic' experience?'

'Oh,' said Nigel, and then thought: 'damn those Regency decadents!'

Next thing he knew, the Baron had given him a violent shove in the direction of a slim, wooden door in the corner of the room. It was unlocked, and before he could regroup, the Baron had seized him by the collar again and pushed him through. He tumbled down an uneven, stone staircase, landing unceremoniously on his hands and knees at the bottom.

As he gathered himself into a sitting position, bruised, battered, and none too happy, he heard a key click in the lock at the top of the stairs.

'I'll be back!' said the Baron from the other side, in a mock Austrian accent.

'Bugger off!' shouted Nigel. There were suitable times and places for stupid movie quotes. This was not one of them. He leaned his head forward into his hands, and tried to think. Now, not only did he have to rescue Sydney, he had to escape himself before this lunatic had a chance to act.

**Thanks for reading. Please review.**

**Apologies again for making this so much 'darker.' This chapter has caused me many 'nightmares' and I'm still not sure I'm quite happy with it… I also still promise that Nigel will get his revenge on everybody! Katy**


	8. Chapter 8: highs and lows

**Disclaimers: as before.**

**Thanks for the reviews on the last chapter. They were much appreciated! **

**Thanks to Leila for the quick proofing, and to the others of you who offered. You're all wonderful!**

……………

Up at the top of the tower, the noise was almost unbearable. The rain was slamming against the loose and crumbling tiles of the spire, while the wind was whistling through every gaping hole in the stonework, roof and masonry. Despite all this, Sydney and Pansy were carrying on a much-needed 'girly' chat.

Pansy had confessed that she had been friendly with old Lord Bannockburgh for some time. He was a 'funny old panda-bear,' she said with a sob. He had been harmless enough, but slightly odd. He liked dressing up as a vampire, to scare the guests, and he enjoyed it if she did the same for him. She admitted that she was responsible for the marks on his neck, but pleaded that they were nothing more than a glorified love-bites. She could never have hurt him. He'd been so kind to her!

'Did you know anything about the will?'

'No…nothing!' Pansy collapsed into a fresh bout of tears. 'Worst of all,' wailed Pansy 'is that it was _me_ that poured him his favourite glass of Glenmorangie... or whatever he called it. I didn't know it would kill… him…' She sobbed harder than ever.

Sydney believed her. Pansy might have been a bit of a gold-digger, but nobody who was about to commit a murder, would have deliberately left so many finger marks, and worse, around the scene of crime. Pansy was ingenuous, but she couldn't be _that_ stupid.

Sydney asked her if she had seen anything suspicious. Pansy sniveled again, and then thought very hard. Suddenly, her blue eyes went wide. 'I've thought of something,' she exclaimed excitedly. 'Before I entered the room to see poor panda-bear, before dinner, he was talking to another woman. They seem to be having a bit of a barney. It was about a statue… and a professor… and a ceremony of some sort…'

'A statue!' It dawned on Syd that her mission may have been more mixed up in the murder than she thought.

Pansy continued. 'I don't like people shouting, so I knocked. He came to the door, and we both left for the sitting room across the hall. I peeped back in the library to see who had been shouting, but there was no one in there. It was like the woman had, well vanished… we didn't go back to the library, then, until just before I left him. That was when I poured him…his…scotch… '

'Have you _any_ idea who it might have been?'

Pansy looked perplexed. 'Well…' she said slowly. 'At the time, I thought it sounded a bit like Moira, but it couldn't have been, could it?'

The wind moaned around the spire, louder than ever.

'We've got to get out of here,' said Syd, suddenly.

Sydney had already ascertained that there was no easy way of escape. The window was too small to climb out of. Anyhow, it had an iron bar across the middle. Her best bet was the door, but it was just too solid to kick down, and locked only from the outside. Now, though, escape seemed more urgent. She knew before that a murderer was on the loose, but if it was Moira…she was the person that Nigel trusted. In addition, she now suspected that Lord Bannockburgh had been murdered because of the statue. If Nigel had continued looking for it, he would be in real danger.

As an astounded Pansy looked on, Syd rammed her shoulder against the door. No luck. She tried again.

This time, the lock clicked and the door opened. Sydney fell straight through and landed, as graciously as possible, at the feet of the Baron.

'My dear Professor,' he drawled, offering her a hand. 'What's the hurry? I was just coming to release you.'

Sydney climbed to her feet without his help. 'Oh yeah?' she asked skeptically.

'Yeah. I've spoken to your assistant. We know you didn't 'do it.' He's waiting for you just out on the battlements.'

'Nigel's out there?' Now she _really_ didn't trust this guy.

'Yes,' said the Baron. 'He doesn't seem to like heights, so I suggest you go quickly.'

Sydney had a vision of Nigel hanging off of the edge of the parapet, desperately clinging on with one hand. She pushed past the large man, and ran up the flight of steps that led to the slim, castellated, walkway that encircled the base of the spire.

'Nigel!' she called.

No answer. There was nobody there. When she turned, the staircase back down was blocked by the bulk of the Baron. He was grinning slyly, and pointing a small pistol at her.

………….

Left in his dark, damp dungeon, Nigel could not, at first, think of anything good to do. He couldn't see, let alone identify a possibility for escape. Was he really going to have to sit there and hope that Syd got herself out and came to rescue him? Again!

After a little while, his eyes began to adjust and he realised that it was not completely pitch black. He could see an area of grey light opposite, which looked about the same shape as a doorway.

He clambered to his feet, and made his way towards the opening. It led to a further room in which there was a small, high window through which shone the rays of a night-lamp outside. There was no potential for escape. The window was far too small, and there was no other door in this room. Defeated, Nigel slumped down against a wall, his mind filled with fearsome images of the returning Baron.

'Ow!'

Nigel jumped up. He hadn't expected the wall to be comfortable, but it was really bumpy and jagged. Reaching out in the dim light, he ran his fingers lightly over it. It felt like some sort of plaster relief or wall frieze. It was divided into segments, and he wondered if part of it might open up. Could it be a door? He knocked, and it sounded thin and hollow.

He felt across the façade again, looking for a lever or handle. Nothing obvious was forthcoming. 'Damn,' he muttered to himself. The Baron could be back any minute now.

Nigel took a deep breath and a step back. He put on his glasses and strained his eyes to make out any images on the wall.

It certainly appeared to be a Greek style frieze. It was not an original, but another imitation, put there when the house was built. He discerned several figures, including the image of a warrior, and a beautiful woman, her body scantily clad with wisps of fabric. He tried pressing and pulling at several parts of the carving, including the sword of the warrior, but nothing moved.

He had to think logically about this. If he was a 'Regency decadent' with slightly kinky tastes, how would he want to open a secret door out of his own, personal dungeon?

The answer seemed too obvious. In fact, he'd done it before! Nigel pressed the breasts of the female figure, wondering why, with nobody around, he was still slightly embarrassed. There was a clunk, and a section of the frieze rolled aside.

………………………..

Behind the screen was a staircase leading upwards, straight to a dead end. After a moment of despair, Nigel realized that it was not a stone flag that blocked his way, but a wooden floor. The floorboards were old, and slightly damp; they had obviously been put over the end of the staircase sometime ago. He put his shoulder to them, and shoved as hard as he could.

After a few attempts, the floorboards cracked, and he burst up into another stonewalled chamber. Rubbing his sore shoulder, he observed it was lit by blazing candles, which were placed in niches in the walls. Straight ahead of him, on a marble altar, was a statue of another stunning, barely clad lady. He knew instantly it was the relic they were after.

He hesitated before he touched it. Sydney had mentioned traps and an inscription. Sure enough, protruding down from the ceiling was a portcullis with sharp pointed spikes. It was poised to fall on anybody who reached for the statue… from the other side.

It occurred to him, that Sydney had found a secret passage in the library was in regular use. His passage from the basement, on the other hand, had not been accessed for some time. He doubted anybody even knew about it anymore, let alone bothered to protect the statue from it.

Cautiously, he reached for the statue and then dived forward under the portcullis. It fell with a loud clunk behind him. If anybody had reached from the library side, it would have taken their arm off. Ahead of him, he spotted a further portcullis, and heard its mechanism start to rumble. 'Damn!' Nigel leapt to his feet and hurled himself under the next obstacle, missing its spikes by millimeters. He had no time to panic. He burst through the door into the library, before any automatic locking system had a chance to kick into action.

Nigel stumbled forward and landed unceremoniously on the carpet. Nevertheless, he felt quite pleased with himself. Not only was he a bit of a stud; _he'd_ negotiated traps and got the relic - with only the aid of, well, a fair bit of luck!

There was no time to rest on his laurels. First, he had another lock to break, to get out of the library. This task was made no easier by the accusing presence of the dead body, still slumped across the desk! Once out, Nigel could not risk going back for the key; he had to get up to the tower and warn Sydney that the Baron was trying to kill her. With the statue tucked under his arm, he frantically searched for the first exit that led out into the middle courtyard. He did his utmost to ignore the pouring rain and the howling wind, and even the bats in the darkness. He fumbled his way into the tower and up the spiral staircase, praying that he was not too late.

………………

Poised on the top of the tower, Sydney eyed the gun in the Baron's hand.

'So that's why you need so many women sucking up to you,' she retorted. 'It's all just to make up for the fact that you've got such a… little one.'

The Baron's grin faded. He had no sense of humour when it came to himself. 'You won't be wisecracking much longer, Miss Fox,' he spat. 'I am afraid this is the end of your wonderful adventures.'

'Yeah?' said Sydney skeptically.

'Yes,' the Baron affirmed. 'Climb up there,' he motioned with the gun at the castellations.

'Okay,' said Syd, still sounding casual. Her mind was racing, looking for a way to distract the Baron so she could strike the gun away. From this position, it wasn't easy… particularly with the hammering rain, and gale force wind.

'Now jump or I'll…oomph!'

The Baron was knocked sideways and the pistol flew out of his hand. A monumental blow had been delivered to the side of his body by a genuine antique, Grecian statue.

'Nigel!' gasped Sydney.

'Thank me later,' panted Nigel, who had just run all the way up the 242 steps. The three of them, simultaneously, jumped for the gun, which had landed on the top of the castellations,

Sydney, with the quickest reactions, got there first. Standing on the edge, she held the gun at arms length over the hundred foot drop.

'I hate these nasty things,' she said, and then swung it back around to point at the Baron, 'but right now even _I'm_ tempted to shoot with it…'

The Baron lunged forward. Sydney, perilously near the edge, deftly sidestepped and planted a punch on the Baron's jaw which sent him flying back again.

Nigel was just considering the best way to help out, when Sydney gave a scream. The crumbling stonework, weakened by the damp, was disintegrating beneath her feet. She tumbled backwards over the precipice.

'Sydney!' Nigel was there in an instant, his heart racing. Sydney was clinging on, barely, with one hand clutching at the fragile edifice.

'I can't hold on…' gasped Sydney. Her fingers were giving way.

'I've got you, Sydney.' Nigel wrapped his hands firmly around her wrist. Keeping his eyes fixed on her face, he ignored, as best as he could, the long descent below. He could sense the Baron was climbing to his feet behind him. Whatever happened, he wouldn't let go.

**More soon…**

**Thanks for reading. Please review!**


	9. Chapter 9: blood must spill

**Disclaimers: as before.**

**Thank you so much for the reviews! I feel loved - I think I'll write here forever! I hope you don't all hate me when you get to the end of this chapter, though.**

**Audra - sorry, it doesn't quite happen as you suggest. I wrote this before I received your review. The Baron will get his comeuppance, though, I promise… **

Nigel firmly grasped Sydney's wrist, as she scrambled to gain some sort of hold on the wall with her other hand. She was having little luck. The rain was hammering against the stonework, as it was lashing against their bodies and faces. Where it wasn't crumbling, the edging was slippery.

'You're going to have to pull me up!' yelled Sydney.

'Okay, 'said Nigel, sounding as confident as he could. He _had_ been trying to do that just that, but was finding it difficult to grip with his own feet resting on mossy, wet flags. In addition, there was the Baron.

As Nigel planted his feet as steadily as he could, and hauled with all his strength, the television star stood behind him and laughed. Then, to Nigel's horror, the Baron squeezed in between him and the spire, and wrapped his arms tightly around his waste.

'I should have tied you up, shouldn't I?' said the Baron sleazily.

Nigel flinched at the unwanted intimacy, but could not let it distract him from his task. He had succeeded in helping Sydney, who had not yet spotted what the Baron was up to, to gain a firmer grip on one of the castellations. Reaching wide with her leg, Syd had also managed to place her toe on a ledge at the top of the cell window.

'I might have a foothold…' she called, optimistically. 'Give me another haul!'

'Let her go,' whispered the Baron. 'Let her go, and you and I can come to some agreement.'

'Will you sod off?' Nigel knew words were useless, but there was little else he could do. His entire strength was devoted to standing firm and holding on to Sydney.

'Let her go,' said the Baron, more menacingly this time. 'Let her go, or I'll push you over and you both die.'

'Then we both die,' replied Nigel flatly. Sydney had now seen the Baron and was doing her utmost to clamber up quickly. The Baron hesitated. Nigel, more firmly grounded with the big man's arms folded around him, managed to pull Sydney higher than she had been yet. This allowed her other hand to improve its tenure.

'Last chance…' jeered the Baron. With Sydney now out of his direct sight line, dragging herself up to the left, Nigel absorbed, for the first time, the full distance of the drop. A wave of dizziness hit him. 'This is it, then,' he thought fearfully. 'At least it looks like Syd's going to make it.' He hadn't lessened his hold of her, but she was now supporting much of her own weight with her foot and other hand. Nigel shut his eyes and involuntarily held his breath.

At that instant, a herculean gust of wind slammed into the tower. The spire gave an agonising creek, causing both the Baron and Syd to glance up in alarm. Nigel opened his eyes. Syd gave a gasp, then shouted 'Nigel, look out!'

A dozen tiles had begun sliding down the slope of the spire, straight at the three occupants of the battlements. Each one exploded into sharp shards as it landed around them. Several narrowly missed the Baron who, ironically, shielded Nigel with his body. The last landed inches from Syd's tentatively gripping hand, which fell away as the block shattered.

'Nigel!' Syd's voice rang with genuine terror.

Her full weight transferred back to the grasp of her assistant, who was still braced by the Baron. After nearly being decapitated, however, the big man wasn't hanging about.

'Stay here and die, then!' He gave Nigel a sharp shove, and fled. Nigel smashed forward against the castellations, but held fast. Every sinew in his body strained as he pulled Sydney back into a position where she could begin her climb again. He didn't let her go.

…………………..

Unhindered by the Baron, although not unperturbed by the slates which were now randomly falling around them, Nigel helped Syd back onto the battlements. As soon as she was on her feet again, Sydney seized his hand. They ran directly to the downward staircase, out of the range of the descending missiles.

Once on the relative safety of the stairs, they collapsed, panting, into each other's arms.

Sydney's words were breathless: 'You saved me… I would have fallen… thank you…' Nigel's response was smothered as, for the second time that evening, a beautiful woman thrust her lips upon his. He yielded willingly, clasping her soaking wet body to him as tightly, and as desperately, as he had held her over the side of the tower.

When finally they released each other, Nigel was dazed by the intensity of his emotions. Had Sydney really just kissed him… like that?

While Nigel was still slumped on the steps, Sydney got up and brushed the excess rain from her clothes. She looked at him with mild concern. 'Are you alright?' she inquired.

'Yes… I think so…yes,' stuttered Nigel.

'Well, come on then!' she demanded. 'We've got to catch that guy! Not only is he murderously insane, he's just made off with the relic…. by the way, well done for getting that. You'll have to tell me how you did it sometime.'

'That would be a pleasure,' said Nigel wearily, as he dragged himself his feet. How could she always just _move on_ like that?

By this time, Sydney had descended the stairs to the cell where she had been incarcerated. She discovered it empty.

'Come on, Nigel!' she shouted back. 'That madman's got Pansy. What the hell is he up to?'

'I don't know,' said Nigel, trying to suppress his memories of the kiss. 'I think he wants to frame her for the murder of Lord Bannockburgh.'

They started descending the spiral staircase.

'Yeah? He's got to be the prime suspect now…. although, because of something Pansy said, I thought it was Moira. She was apparently arguing with Lord Bannockburgh before Pansy met up with him… something about the statue. '

'I'm not surprised by that,' replied Nigel. 'I was searching for the keys to release you, and she found me and… kissed me.'

'She kissed you!'

'It's not _that_ rare an occurrence,' he retorted. He felt Sydney had sounded a little _over_ surprised. 'Anyway… she was acting very strangely. She might have betrayed me to the Baron.'

'So they're in it together,' affirmed Sydney. 'What the hell are they up to?'

'I'm not sure…' replied Nigel, 'but, the Baron said he wanted the statue. We know the old boy wasn't keen to part with it. Why would the actor kill him for it, though?' Nigel paused and thought. 'Do you think it might have something to do with the regeneration myths surrounding it? The Baron strikes me as the sort who would like to recapture a bit of faded youth and beauty.'

'To save his career?' pondered Sydney. 'Maybe… although I doubt there's much recent proof it works. And, why is Moira involved?'

'I have no idea…but we can be sure that at least one of them is a homicidal maniac!'

…………….

Sydney and Nigel were heading for the library. It had been the hub of the action so far, and Nigel had a hunch that the Baron would want to take the statue back to its altar. The secret room behind it had been set up like a temple, and if they were going to perform some sort of regeneration ceremony, he was sure that this was where it would happen. Sydney agreed.

They were just tiptoeing across the hall towards the library door when their progress was interrupted by a timid little voice.

'Nigel! Lady Hortensia!' Syd and Nigel spiraled around to find themselves face-to-face with the slight figure of Lucy Milford dressed in a long white nightgown. 'What's going on? I heard a terrible row outside!'

'Shhhhhhhhh!' Syd placed a finger to her lips. 'Please, go back to bed.'

Lucy recalled Sydney's possible guilt. 'Why, my husband locked you in the tower!'

'I didn't do it!' hissed Sydney. 'But the person who did might be about to murder again. Please, Lucy - is that your real name? - get yourself to safety.'

'Yes, I'm Lucy. My husband said I wasn't an important enough character to deserve a new one for the game!'

'You shouldn't let your husband boss you about like… nevermind! Please, you have to trust me. Now, get to safety.' Lucy looked at Sydney uncertainly.

'Please do what she says,' pleaded Nigel. 'These are dangerous people. You could get hurt.'

'Alright,' said Lucy. She slipped almost silently back up the guest staircase.

'I hope nobody heard that,' said Syd through gritted teeth, as their unwanted companion vanished. As silently as possible, they crept into the library.

………………….

The library was empty, but two things were missing. Firstly, and most conspicuously, the body of Lord Bannockburgh was gone. Secondly, Nigel noticed that his Grecian Urn was no longer in its corner. The secret door by the bookshelves was slightly ajar again. Nigel followed Syd as she sidled over and silently pried it an inch further open. They peeped in to see what was happening in the hidden room.

They didn't like what they saw. The statue was back on its altar and, sitting slumped against it, her hands tied and her mouth gagged, was a distressed looking Pansy. In front of her, dumped on the floor, was the body of the Baron and the large Grecian Urn.

Behind this tragic scene, stood the Baron, wearing a long black cloak with a high collar, like a costume out of a black-and-white Dracula movie. Next to him, wearing the stylish black gown in which Nigel had seen her in earlier, was Moira. Her skin looked deadly pale, highlighted by her dark hair. Reflections of the candle flames danced in her dark brown eyes, giving her a demonic air.

As Nigel had conjectured, they appeared to be about to undergo some sort of ceremony. Moira was giving the Baron stern instructions, to which he was listening intently. Her voice was too soft to be heard at first, but his response carried easily.

'But I can't remember the words in Ancient Greek. Can I say them in English?'

Moira rolled her eyes. 'Yes, yes! Now get on with it!'

'Will it work quickly? Will you tell me if I look younger?'

'Patience!' commanded Moira, louder this time. 'If you carry out the ceremony correctly, those movie bosses will change their minds the moment they see you on Monday. I promise you: they will not be complaining about money spent on soft focus cameras and air brushes anymore!'

'They'd better not!' said the Baron with heartfelt passion. Moira handed him a knife. 'Remember,' she said, gesturing at the body on the floor, 'that man was over 200 years old… his longevity will now belong to you!'

Back at the door, Nigel was getting alarmed. 'What are we going to? It looks like they're trying to kill her!'

'We've got to do something,' said Syd meditatively, her eyes fixed on the outrageous scene.

'And… what does she mean that Lord Bannockburgh was over 200 years old? He looks quite different to his father, a prominent politician, and to his grandfather, a highly renowned World War I naval commander!' Nigel was mystified.

'I doubt that our friend the Baron knows his history quite as well as you do. I think she could be bluffing him…but that's not what I'm worried about right now!'

The Baron had yanked poor Pansy to her feet, and was holding one of her wrists out over the statue.

'Remember,' cackled Moira. 'When you cut her, you have to make it look like a suicide. She killed herself in remorse, remember, after she realised that murdering her poor old 'panda-bear' led to the deaths of two other innocent, but deluded, people as they tried to escape…' Pansy sobbed so loud it could be heard through the gag. The Baron raised the knife.

'I'll get Pansy,' hissed Sydney to Nigel, 'try and trap them between the two portcullises… they seem to be jammed up with something…'

Sydney made her presence known by bounding boldly into the middle of the room. Moira stepped back into the shadows, as the Baron looked up, aghast.

'You… you should be dead!'

'No. But, I'm beginning to think the world would be a better place if _you_ were. Now let her go!'

'I need her blood to complete the ceremony… come any closer and you'll be my next victim.'

He raised the knife again. Sydney rushed at him, stopping his arm and pulling Pansy out of the way before the blade could reach its mark. He swiped at her with the knife, which she ducked, and she then parried a blow to his stomach. The baron fell back, crashing into the altar.

Nigel helped the whimpering Pansy back to the library door, which had somehow been locked. Nigel suspected Moira must have triggered a mechanism, but she was nowhere to be seen. He then turned his attention to the workings of the portcullises. The Baron was back on his feet and Sydney, as they exchanged kicks and blows, had lured him where he would be trapped by the falling partitions. Pull this off, and the monster could be caged.

The first one was easy. The workings had simply been wedged with a rock, which came out easily. 'Mind out, Syd!' he shouted, as it crashed down behind her, cutting the three of them off from Pansy and the blocked library exit.

The second portcullis, however, caused more difficulty. Not only was the rock firmly stuck, but the Baron had worked out what Nigel was up to.

The actor had also realised that Sydney was a far superior combatant to him. She had kicked the knife from his hand and it was only a matter of time before she landed a knockout blow. He couldn't beat her, so he dived unexpectedly in Nigel's direction and grabbed him by the back of the shirt. The Baron then pushed Nigel hard in the direction of the altar, into which he collided headfirst. Sydney lunged after the Baron, but was repelled by the base of his boot. He wrested the rock from the workings of the portcullis, and threw himself sideways as it smashed to the floor.

Sydney was the one trapped in the cage. The Baron, on the other hand, ended up on the side with the escape route, the altar, the knife and Sydney's teaching assistant.

The Baron picked up the knife, and glanced down at Nigel, who was lying stunned at his feet. He then looked at Sydney, who was straining unsuccessfully to pull up the portcullis, and laughed.

'Don't touch him, you bastard! That woman was conning you. Nothing will save your career when you're in jail!'

The Baron ignored her. 'She only said that it had to be somebody youngish and pretty,' he mumbled to himself. 'She didn't say it had to be a woman. Besides, I don't want to look like a Pansy!'

For once, Sydney had no words to express quite what an obnoxious man he was. The Baron forced Nigel to his knees in front of the statue, and stretched out his captives arm in its direction. Then he chanted: 'To release the beauty, blood must spill, and darkness must meet light.'

As Sydney screamed 'No!' the Baron slashed the knife straight across the middle of Nigel's forearm.

**Thanks for reading. Please, please, please review!**

**I'll do my very best to get the last chapter up by the end of the week… but I've got a deadline for college, and my professor will be baying for _my_ blood if I don't meet it!**

**Thanks again to my beta…**


	10. Chapter 10:hay, hell and high water

**Disclaimers: as before.**

**Thanks to my reviewers and sorry for the rather shocking cliffhanger. I felt guilty - honest!**

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'Leave him alone! You bastard! You'll pay for this, I swear, I'll kill you!' Sydney rattled the portcullis in sheer anguish. Tears of rage and fear pricked in her eyes. She had rarely felt so powerless, so frustrated, and so downright scared for somebody that she loved. 'Please…'

Nigel, to whom the world was increasingly hazy, gave a guttural cry as the knife sliced through his flesh. He tried to recoil his arm, but the Baron forced it out straight so the blood, that was beginning to seep from his wound, dripped directly onto the statue.

As the first drops fell, the Baron lifted his other hand and ran it over his face. ' I don't feel any different,' he ranted. 'Why isn't it working?'

'Because its a load of rubbish! I don't know why, but I think Moira was conning you. Look…please…' Sydney was willing to be uncharacteristically humble. ' Just don't hurt him any more. Let me bandage his arm… please…' The tears were now trickling down her cheeks.

Nigel slumped forward onto the altar, resting his head on his other arm. He was still conscious but, besides the searing pain in his arm, he felt a strange tingling sensation. Black dots were appearing in front of his eyes.

'I cut too high up the arm…' rumbled the Baron introspectively. 'I must need his life's blood.' He yanked Nigel's head back by the hair, so his throat was exposed. Sydney screamed, guessing his intentions all too well. The Baron reached for the knife.

At that instant, there was a loud, resonating bang. The room was filled with a puff of smoke. When the fog cleared, the Baron lay prone on the ground, a growing spot of blood discernible on his left shoulder. In the doorway from the library, opened from without, stood the fragile figure of Lucy Milford with her husband's double-barrelled shotgun.

'Good shot,' gasped Sydney.

'I was Hampshire ladies clay-pigeon shooting champion, six years in a row,' said Lucy. 'I don't think my husband's ever forgiven me. He can't shoot for toffee… I better go and get help now!'

'Yes… please hurry!'

Sydney turned away, and reached through the bars to lightly touch Nigel on the shoulder. He was huddled at the base of the altar with his back to her, clutching his injured arm and trembling. The blood was seeping through his fingers.

'Nigel? I need to try and bandage you quickly. Can you move closer?' Syd ripped a strip of fabric off her already stretched and tattered dress.

Nigel obeyed, sliding himself towards her, and even managed a vague smile. 'I'm okay, Syd. I mean, well, I've been better…' Nigel flinched. 'Hurts like hell…but he was right, he cut too high. I don't think he's hit anything too fundamental…'

'Let's not take any chances, eh?' Nigel shakily held out his arm, and Syd did her best to bandage it as tightly, yet as gently, as she could.

……………………

Mr and Mrs Bob were the first real assistance on the scene after Lucy, who went to fetch them. Pansy had done little but have hysterics. Mr Bob helped Sydney prise her way out of the cage, while Mrs Bob tended Nigel and observed, rather carelessly, that the Baron was not actually dead. Lucy Milford was _too _good a shot, and had deliberately aimed for the shoulder. She wanted him to pay from what he'd done with long years in jail.

It was only after Sydney had ascertained for sure that Nigel was _not _dying, that the issue of Moira still being on the loose became pressing again.

'Well, she can't get off the island,' said Mr Bob. 'Not unless she tries to launch the car ferry – it's the only boat moored here at the moment - but in this gale, it'd be hopeless.'

'Yes, but she's a desperate woman,' said Syd.

'So you're going after her?' said Nigel faintly, attempting a reassuring smile. ' I knew you would.'

Sydney grinned back guiltily. 'Yeah, I'm sorry Nigel. I know we've got the relic, and this psychopath,' here she kicked her foot in the direction of the Baron. 'But, we can't let her get away. And… I've got to admit, I'm curious as to why she did…whatever she's been doing!' Sydney crouched down, and kissed him on the cheek. 'You'll be okay?'

'Fine. If you're going, you'd better go, hadn't you?'

Sydney gave him a tender hug, and dashed from the room before Mr Bob could stop her.

'Miss, let me come too,' he called after her, concerned, but she was gone.

…………….

Outside, dawn was now breaking. The rain had stopped falling but there was still a strong, gale-force wind. Sydney considered motoring down the drive in her 1930's sports car to gain time, but knew that it would loose her the element of surprise. She cursed the dress that had hampered her all night, but was glad that she had never put on the stilettos and was still clad in sensible boots.

It took a while to reach the jetty, but she was relieved to see that the ferry was still there. Sydney hid herself behind the boathouse, peeping out to survey the scene. At first there was no sign of Moira. After a few minutes, though, a slight figure emerged from the cabin of the little ship. Moira began turning the wheel that started the engine. Sydney guessed she had been waiting to see if the waves would subside, but had realised that she dare not delay any longer.

As stealthily as possible, Sydney slipped out of her hiding place and snuck onto the back of the boat. Moira was struggling with the controls, and only turned around in alarm when Sydney addressed her from barely a metre away:

'Game over, Moira, whatever your game is!'

Moira whipped a gun from the inside of her cloak. 'Stay away, or I'll shoot!'

Sydney remained calm, raising her hands and taking a small step back. 'If you launch this boat, chances are it'll capsize. It's not designed to cross rough seas.' The swell of the waves was already tilting the little ferry, harboured as it was.

A flash of concern crossed Moira's face, which she concealed in a frown. The engine had started chugging and, still with the gun pointed firmly at Sydney, she started to unravel the towrope.

'This is suicide, Moira!' Gusts of wind were whipping their hair and clothes. Surely she would not launch in this squall?

'I don't care!' shouted Moira, suddenly in a frenzy. 'Its all gone wrong… nobody should have known I was involved. The house and this whole island would have been mine!'

'Yours?' said Sydney, genuinely intrigued.

'Yes,' affirmed Moira angrily. 'Lord Bannockburgh left the house, in his will, to me and to Pansy. No-one but I knew, not even that blonde airhead.' She sighed dramatically. 'I needed them dead, so _I _could live my life, but I couldn't think how to get away with it… and then, on my last trip here, I intercepted calls from that stupid actor. He'd got wind of rumours about the regenerating powers of that statue while holidaying in Greece and traced it to here. He was clearly desperate, and I realised that he'd probably _kill_ to get his youth back… I knew about the temple, and the poem on the vase, and that the old fool liked playacting vampires…'

'So you made up the whole ceremony thing up, so that he would kill them for you!' Sydney thought she would take advantage of Moira's confessional mood.

'Kind of… everything was going well until old Lord Bannockburgh overheard you and Nigel by the stables and realised who _you _were. He said he was going to announce at dinner he was giving you the statue. The silly old duffer was going to donate it to your friend in the first place; he thought any bad publicity would put off his paying guests. I dissuaded him before, but he was determined now he knew you were here… so, rather than poison him after dinner, I had to do it early… fortunately, Pansy was still sniffing about, so I knew people would suspect her easily enough to convince that baron he was safe to kill her…'

'And then make _her _death look like a suicide… and if anybody found out, they would blame both deaths on the Baron… I mean, Peter Morrison. You're a sick, twisted woman!'

'Yes… but I would have got away with it if you and your darned cute assistant hadn't turned up! No matter, I'm going to sink or swim with this boat.' She smiled, and cocked the pistol. 'But first I think I'm going to have to shoot you...'

Sydney smiled back sweetly. 'There's no need for that, I won't stop you leaving…' She feigned a motion backwards and then lunged forward, swiping the gun from Moira's delicate hand. She then landed a firm punch on her opponent's jaw, which sent the young woman staggering backwards into the ships controls. Moira jarred heavily against the lever that regulated the speed, sending the vessel lurching forward into the mountainous waves.

'Damn, that's not good,' thought Sydney. She grabbed at the controls, and pulled backwards, but this had no effect. The boat was chugging steadily out of the sheltered harbour, and into very obvious danger.

As she frantically fiddled with the various levers and wheels, she heard the beep of a car horn. A vintage Rover had just drawn up by the quay. Out of it piled Mr Bob, Lucy Milford, with her trusty shotgun and, rather more gingerly, Nigel. 'Nigel!' Sydney was temporarily distracted. He shouldn't be chasing after her in his state!

The three newcomers were waving their arms, and shouting animatedly, although she could not make out their words. Too late, she realised that a giant wave was heading for the little ferry. Sydney gripped the side of the boat as it rose ten foot in the air. Then the world spun one hundred and eighty degrees and water surged around her.

………………..

'Sydney!' Nigel cried out in alarm, as Lucy Milford screamed.

'Stay here,' Mr Bob instructed, mainly to Nigel. ' I should never have let you come with us… I'm going to get a rope.'

'Be quick,' harried Nigel as Mr Bob dashed into the boathouse. He then completely ignored Mr Bob's advice, clambering down onto the steep pebble and mud beach, over which the landing platform jutted out.

'Sydney! Sydney!' It was Nigel's turn to feel helpless to save someone he loved. He could see the bottom of the boat bobbing, but no one had surfaced yet. 'Why did it have to get deep so quickly?' he lamented. The waves were crashing down onto the beach in front of him, where a strong undertow churned the pebbles back down into the sea. There was still no sign of Mr Bob.

Amidst the towering waves only a few metres out, he spotted a waving hand. As the swell momentarily subsided, he saw Sydney fighting with all her might through the buffeting ocean. Nigel hesitated: he _really _didn't want to have to muster the strength go in there, but watching his Sydney founder in the water evoked the same emotions he'd felt as she hung from the tower. He wouldn't let her fall, so how could he stand there and watch her drown? Bewildered at how everything had come to this, Nigel waded cautiously into the biting cold of the undertow. The ground shifted unsettlingly beneath his feet as the pebbles grinded noisily forward in the current. Once he was just above knee deep, he held out his good arm in her direction.

'Syd,' he called over the roaring waves. 'Can you reach me?'

Sydney was still choking out water and couldn't reply. The part of her that wasn't struggling for her life, however, was wondering if Nigel had always had such a selflessly heroic streak and how he on earth he'd been given a chance to display it twice in one night. Exerting herself through the steeply undulating waves, she swam forward until she was inches from his hand.

As they reached to touch, however, a wave nearly as great as the one that had toppled the boat, swept over both of them as it broke towards the beach. Nigel, barely standing firm, lost his footing and was sucked under. When the water subsided, he did not re-emerge. Sydney, finding she was now within her depth, dived under and gratefully seized his body, dragging him back to the surface. With one arm holding him close to her, she grasped the end of Mr Bob's hopefully proffered rope, and pulled for the shore.

………………………………

'The man's a hero!' declared Mr Bob, and there was not a person present who disagreed. With every woman in the room apart from, annoyingly, Sydney, fussing over him incessantly, Nigel almost wished that somebody would.

They were all back safely at the mansion, Sydney and Nigel having changed into warm, clean clothes. Both were very glad their maritime ordeal was over. The Baron, now conscious and with his gunshot wound patched up, was firmly under lock and key. Nobody had been able to contact the police yet.

Even the Colonel had decided Nigel was a proper trooper. 'I think Sydney and your wife saved the day really…' ventured Nigel, but his female fans, and the Colonel, were having none of it.

'_You_ saved that silly woman's life twice,' barked the Colonel, regarding Sydney. 'And, as for my wife! Well, she got lucky. I've no idea why she didn't wake me. I'm a sure shot!'

Sydney dropped her mouth in righteous, feminist disgust, and was on the verge of jumping to Lucy's defence, when the little woman touched her on the shoulder and whispered: 'don't worry dear; I hold the whip hand really. He's all bark and no bite … just let him fume.'

After the wind settled down, the first party from the outside world to arrive, rather unexpectedly, was the Baron's helicopter. It seemed that he had ordered it to arrive on the Saturday morning. His 'people' were rather shocked, to say the least, when they discovered the situation and heard the whole story.

The producer of the Baron's next movie, who the actor had instructed to turn up 'for a great surprise,' seemed strangely relieved. 'I knew he was on the verge of insanity, but I didn't realise he'd gone completely over the edge. We've been desperate to ditch him for ages, but he had invested a lot of money in the production company.' The producer looked Nigel up and down. 'You're a good-looking fellow,' he mused, 'how about a screen test? I'm sure at least a TV movie will come of what happened last night. You could rise to stardom by playing yourself! What d'ya think?'

Nigel slowly rose from his comfy chair. This caused Tabatha, Pansy, Miss Macduff, Mrs Bob and the thin ex-nurse with the ginger hair to reluctantly remove their hands from his hair, face and all the other parts of his body that they were fondly caressing.

'Thanks… but, no thanks,' he said the movie producer. 'I've had enough of being a hero… I don't think I make a very good one anyway.'

Everyone in the room clamoured to disagree as Nigel sidled over to Sydney.

'Please!' he hissed. 'You've got to get me out of here!'

'You're not enjoying the attention, then?' teased Sydney.

'No!'

Sydney slipped her arm through his uninjured one, and announced ' I need to have a word with my assistant in private.' She led him from the room as collective female voices raised in protest.

……………

'Are you feeling up to a little walk,' inquired Sydney

'Anything, as long as it gets me away from those awful women!'

'They adore you.'

'Yes, and they still treat me like I'm the stableboy. Tabatha was…well, I daren't tell you where she was putting her hands.'

Sydney raised her eyebrows and giggled. 'You know, I'm sure they respect you really. They all think you're a great hero. They just also find you very attractive. You should be flattered!'

'I suppose it _could _be worse,' admitted Nigel. He wondered if it was a good time to broach the subject of the kiss on the staircase.

They had descended the steps out of the front door of the house, and were heading around towards the side. 'When are we going,' asked Nigel.

'Where do you think?'

……………….

The stables had a solid roof and the hay inside it was still fluffy and appealing despite the overnight rain. Syd stood in front of it for a second, facing Nigel, who was peering at her from the doorway. Then she threw herself backward, letting her body bounce into the soft, natural couch.

When Nigel did not instantly join her, she propped herself up on her elbows and looked at him quizzically. 'What are you waiting for? You said you wanted a roll in the hay before we left!'

Nigel took a deep breath. 'Syd. I'm…well, I'm confused. Yesterday you said you didn't fancy me - that I wasn't rugged enough or something - and then last night in the tower, you…you…well, you know what you did. Then you pretend like nothing happened… and now this!'

Sydney frowned, and then screwed up her face apologetically. ' I suppose those _are _rather mixed messages…' she conceded.

'What is the message then?'

Sydney thoroughly surveyed the appealing sight of her teaching assistant. Nigel had the air of a wounded soldier, tired and jaded and with his arm bandaged. His hair and clothes were dishevelled, mainly from being toyed with by his female admirers. He was still quite clean, but 'God, who needs dirt?' thought Sydney. She figured he looked as sexy as hell. Moreover, he'd saved her life _twice_. Didn't he deserve some sort of respite from her torture?

'The message is…' started Sydney, ' that I'm not very good at sending them out sometimes. I admit, when I kissed you on the tower, I was just blown away by the passion of the moment. Hell, I've kissed other guys at times like that and regretted it later…but I don't regret it with you, Nigel. I should've done it before!'

'Really?'

'Yeah, really,' she patted the straw next to where she was lying. 'Come and join me?' Nigel eased himself down, so he was close next to her. As she did back on the plane, she leaned towards his intimately so her warm breath ruffled his hair.

'Like every other woman in this place, I've been lusting after you all weekend,' she purred seductively. She traced her finger lightly down side of his face, and then let it wander playfully down the front of his shirt.

'You have. That's wonderful…I mean…its…I…'

Nigel paused, but before Sydney had time to wonder, he communicated all with a deep veracious kiss. Their bodies then entwined together, as one, as they rolled over in the hay.

……………………………

A few weeks later, two very interesting emails arrived at Trinity University, coincidentally on the same day.

The first was from Maria. The statue had arrived safely at the temple exhibition in Athens, kindly donated by the new owner of the house, Pansy. They had managed to scrub off all the bloodstains.

The second was from Mr Bob, who had promised that he would keep them up-to-date with any interesting news. The first part was the least shocking. Pansy, who had promised ardently before Sydney and Nigel left that she would turn the house into a 'lovely museum,' had apparently changed her mind several times. She was now toying with the idea of an animal sanctuary or casino, and he hoped that Sydney could write to her and dissuade her from the latter.

The second half concerned the fate of Moira. She had paid for her crimes; her body had been found on the beach a few days later. Strangely, however, the coroner had not been able to positively affirm that she had drowned. Odder still, the autopsy had conjectured that her death may have been caused by blood loss, which could only have occurred through two strange marks which were found on her neck.

'Weird,' murmured Sydney to Nigel, who was reading the e-mail over her shoulder.

'Do you think it was the old boy, reaping his revenge?' suggested Nigel, baring his teeth and nails in a mock-Dracula pose.

'You shouldn't joke about a thing like that,' she said, despite suppressing a giggle. 'Hey, I reckon it was that Miss Macduff. She was _really _frightening!'

'I'd rather not recall. Most things about that weekend, I would very much like to forget.' Nigel turned to leave the office, but Sydney rushed around and stopped him, blocking the doorway.

'Surely you don't want to forget _all _of it?' she teased. 'You know, I kept some of my costumes.'

'You did?' Nigel wasn't sure where this conversation was going.

'And I kept that riding crop,' she whispered suggestively. 'Wanna play, stableboy?'

'Maybe later,' said Nigel quickly, and he picked up a random pile of books and pushed past her out of the office. Sydney smiled to herself. She _knew _he'd be back.

The end.

**Thanks for reading: as before, I've been getting a guilty pleasure from checking my stats, but...**

**...please, please review! As I always say, I really appreciate it. I'm toying with several ideas for my next story, which I want to be completely different. If I know what people like, or what didn't work, it all helps!**

**Katy x**


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